Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Troubled Night

The house had been deserted for years. It was painted a bluish gray with white trim, but it was old, faded and peeling. Whatever beauty the structure once held was hidden beneath years of neglect. The grounds, an isolate bluff overlooking the ocean, had fared no better than the house. Yellow patches of grass, grayish brown dirt, leafless brittle trees were all that remained of the formerly lush surroundings. Still, there was a sense of tranquility within the old rusted gates.
Charlotte Thomson walked along the gravel drive, having left her car parked outside the gates. She pulled her sweater tight, insulating herself against the cold ocean wind. Her autumn leaf skirt whipped against her nylon clad legs. The day had begun much warmer, but with the sun dipping below the horizon, a winter chill was rising. She walked carefully up the rotted, creaking steps to the front porch of the house and knocked on the door.
The door creaked open and slammed against its stop. She stood outside the threshold and leaned her head inside. It was dark. The musty odor of dirt, dust and old mold tickled at her nose. The diminishing sunlight, shining through unshaded windows revealed hints of cobwebs covering everything from the floor to the ceiling. A sitting room off to her left sported sheet covered furnitured. The sheets were yellowed with age and covered in dust and cobwebs.
“Hello,” she said. Her voice echoed throughout the house.
She turned her back on the house and leaned against the rotting railing lining the porch. Her eyes scanned the grounds. Nothing. No one. She turned back to the open door and walked inside, escaping the cold wind. At the foot of the stairs, she stopped, looked toward the top and said, “Hello.”
A gust of wind rattled the windows. The front door slammed shut. Charlotte jumped, spun toward the door. There was nothing, no one. She took a deep, calming breath. The house creaked and rattled under another gust of wind. She giggled, happy there was no one to see her fright. It was a big house, vacant, isolated, and there were dark clouds moving in from the ocean. A stormy night all alone in an old house was just the sort of thing ghost stories were made of, but ghosts were not real.
Charlotte pulled her phone out of her purse. There hadn’t been a signal at the gates, but without a landline in the house she decided to check again, not that she expected better results. The phone’s display lit. It beeped once, twice, three time. She blinked at it. Signal strength showed a full two bars. She pressed her number one speed dial and put the phone to her ear while it rang.
“Hey Babe. Don’t worry, I got your costume and I’ll be home in less than ten,” said her boyfriend, Billy.
“That’s great,” she said. “Unfortunately I won’t be.”
His tone changed from cheerful to serious. “What’s wrong?”
“I got a flat.”
He chuckled. Disasters were always somehow funny to him. “You want me to come fix it?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “How fast can you get here?”
“Depends on where ‘here’ is?”
She cleared her throat. “Well yeah, that’s sort of the problem.”
He sighed into the phone. “Don’t tell me you got lost again.”
“OK,” she said, “but I still don’t know where I am.”
Billy said, “Do you know what road you were on before you got lost?”
“I think so,” she said.
“Don’t keep me in suspense. Which one?”
“Well it was paved and close to the ocean, kind of winding,” she said.
He chuckled again. “Should I ask which ocean?”
Charlotte shook her head at the ceiling. He wasn’t going to let her live this one down for ages. “Not unless I’ve been missing a lot longer than the couple hours it feels like.”
“Well that’s good news. So, you were driving along by the ocean for two hours and got a flat tire. I should be able to find you by morning or at least tomorrow night.”
“I’m in a big deserted house that’s sort of on a bluff overlooking the ocean,” she said.
He asked, “Does it have an address?”
“Probably,” she said.
He chuckled some more. “Do you want me to guess at the numbers?”
“Do you want to sleep on the couch?” she asked.
“Are you going to keep me company?” he asked.
“Not in your dreams,” she said.
“So you’re in a big deserted house by the ocean of a winding paved road that runs beside the ocean?” he said.
“Umm, well the road here isn’t paved anymore.”
He chuckled. “Did someone come by and unpave it while we’ve been talking?”
She scowled at her phone. “You must think I’m an idiot.”
“No, no,” he said. “You just didn’t mention that you left the paved road.”
“You didn’t give me a chance.”
“Well, I’m giving you the chance now,” he said.
“I was driving on the road by the ocean and I turned off it on some small street that should have been heading inland, but I think it took me back toward the coast. Anyway, I turned off that street trying to get back to the main road and I ended up on this dirt and gravel road. That’s where I got the flat and when I stopped I was like right in front of these big rusting iron gates and inside the gates is the house where I am now.”
“And you can’t find anything to tell you the address of the house?” he asked.
“The numbers are worn off the house, if they were ever there in the first place and the gates probably had a number on them but all it has now is a 9 or it might be a 6 that is hanging upside down.”
He chuckled. “So you’re at 9 or 6 dirt gravel road by the ocean. That should be easy to find.”
“Stop laughing. This isn’t funny.”
He chuckled harder. “What about your gps in the car?”
She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “It stopped working after I turned off the main road. I told you that thing was a worthless piece of junk.”
“What do you mean stopped working?”
“The screen went black and it kept saying ‘Off map’ over and over until I hit the thing about a dozen times.”
“Believe it or not,” Billy said, “that actually helps. There aren’t many places by the ocean that aren’t on the grid.”
“So you’re going to come get me?” she asked.
“I’m thinking about it,” he said. “Are you going to make me sleep on the couch?”
“If you don’t stop teasing me.”
“I think I’ll stop by the apartment first and pick up your hairbrush,” he said.
“What on Earth for?”
He chuckled. “Don’t worry, I won’t tease you with it.”
“Just relax, Babe,” he said, “I’m coming to get you. Call me if anyone shows up or if you figure out more about where you are. Otherwise, just sit tight.”
The call ended. Charlotte put away her phone and scouted out the downstairs. She wandered from room to room, lifting sheets on various tables, yanking open drawers, all in search of a piece of mail or something that might give her a better idea of exactly where she was. In the end there was nothing.
She returned to the front of the house and entered the sitting room. The room had two armchairs, a sofa, three side tables and a coffee table, and a small desk against the side wall underneath a window. Charlotte carefully uncovered the sofa, folding the sheet so as to trap as much of its dust and cobwebs inside of itself. She laid the folded she aside on the coffee table.
The sofa, like the rest of the house, was old. Its fabric was silky, untorn and a muted green color somewhere in between lime and sage. The framing was a dark wood, mahogany perhaps or cherry. The dim light provided by the moon made it too difficult to tell for certain.
She sat on the sofa. It was springy and soft. She looked over its back out the front window. No signs of life. It would likely be a long while before Billy found his way to her. She kicked her heels off and put her feet up on the sofa. It took only a few moments before the temptation to lie down was too great. She rested her head on the arm and curled her toes into cushion and underneath the padded arm on the opposite end. Her eyes fluttered closed and she drifted off to sleep.
Charlotte dreamed of the house the way it should have been. Bright. Clean. Occupied. She was upstairs in a bedroom. The bed was unmade. Clothes were scattered on the floor in piles and individually. They were mostly dresses, but there were skirts and blouses, bras and panties, nylons and pantyhose, and shoes all over as well. The closet door was open, clothing blocking it from moving. Dresser drawers were in various states of openness, clothing hanging out or pinched between the drawer and the frame.
She looked in the mirror and saw herself, only younger. A teenager. The age fit. She had kept her room quite the mess in her teenage years. Her mother had often complained. The old scolding taunted in her ears. When are you going to clean your room. It looks like a tornado hit it. How do you even walk around in there?
Charlotte turned toward the door. She kicked clothes out of the path and pulled the door open. The chandelier above the stairs was lit, providing light to the upstairs hallway. There was no dust or dirt or cobwebs. She looked around. The other bedroom doors were closed. She left hers open and headed down the stairs. At the bottom, she stopped.
An authoritative masculine voice rattled her bones. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Out,” she said as if it were the most natural response in the world.
The man was tall. He wore a black wool suit with a matching vest that had a gold chain watch hanging from it. The white shirt looked like it was silk as did the strings of his untied bow tie. His black hair was trimmed neat in a timeless fashion. He moved quickly toward her, his right hand blurred through the air and slapped against her cheek in an echoing blow.
He wagged a scolding finger in front of her nose. “I won’t be having any of your sass tonight, young lady.”
Charlotte coddled her stinging cheek in her hand. She stared at the man open-mouthed.
He kept wagging his finger. “Now, I asked you a question, Charlotte.”
She closed her mouth, stopped holding her cheek. “I was going to see Billy.”
His hand dropped to his side. “I told you to stay away from that boy.”
She stomped her foot on the floor, just like what she would have done when she was a teen. “I love him and he loves me.”
“If it’s true love it will wait and if it’s not it will pass,” he said. “Right now you’ve got more important things to focus on than boys.”
She folded her arms across her chest and glared up at the man. “It’s not fair.”
His face softened. He smiled. “I’m sure it seems that way right now, but someday you’ll look back on this and understand that I’m only looking out for your best interest.”
She pouted at him, but there was nothing to be said. No argument was going to win anyway.
He looked up the stairs in the direction of her bedroom. “Did you clean your room today like I asked?”
She shook her head.
“Why not?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her with him into the sitting room. “I warned you what was going to happen if you didn’t.”
She struggled fruitlessly against his hold. “I’ll do it now. I promise.”
He sat in the center of the sofa, holding her next to his leg. “You’ll do it tonight alright,” he said. “Right after I’ve finished heating your buns.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll do it. I’ll do it,” she pleaded.
“Stop struggling,” he said. “I’m going to let go of you and you’re going to stand right where you are and strip down to your panties. If you make me get up and chase you, it will be twice as bad, understood?”
She stared down at him. There was no escaping his grasp. She looked out the window behind the sofa, but she could only see herself and the room reflected in the blackness. Her gaze returned to him. She nodded.
He kept his hold. “I want to hear you say it.”
She sighed. “Yes, Sir.”
He released his hold on her wrist.
The instinct to run was only barely manageable. Trepidation thudded in her chest. Her legs felt wobbly and her hands trembled. She glanced at the window again. “Can I close the curtain?”
“No,” he said. “If you want to avoid these sessions, you’ll learn to behave and do as you’re told.”
Resigned to the inevitability of her situation, Charlotte unfastened her skirt and allowed it to fall to the floor. She picked it up, folded it and placed it on the coffee table. Her finger quickly unbuttoned her blouse, remembering at the last moment to undo the cuffs before pulling it off. She folded it as well and laid it on top of the skirt. Her shoes came off next, she left them on the floor next to the foot of the coffee table. She carefully rolled her stockings off her legs one at time and wadded them together, laying them on her blouse. Her fingers reached up behind her to the clasp of her bra and she looked pleadingly in the man’s direction, hoping he might allow her to keep it on. His eyes gave no reprieve. She unclasped the white garment and let it slip down her arms away from her breasts. It folded methodically in her hands and rested atop the pile of her clothes.
He picked up a small paddle that was resting on the cushion beside him. It was oval like a hairbrush without the bristles. The wood was stained dark and had a gloss to it that reflected the lamp light from the corner of the room. He patted his lap with his free hand. “You know the position,” he said.
Slow. Reluctant. She laid herself across his lap, her toes and hands resting on the floor. The touch of his hand on her naked back sent a shiver along her spine. She felt the paddle rest against the thin cotton of her white panties. It too was cold. She felt the paddle leave and an instant later it returned with a loud smack that temporarily indented her right cheek. It left behind a fierce sting. She blinked and stared at his pant leg. A simple glimpse of her freely swaying breasts sent a fresh wave of embarrassment flooding through her skin and made her face burn hot.
The feeling faded quickly, replaced by the sting of another swat from the paddle. Her left cheek bounced. The paddle smacked the right side again and returned to the left an instant later. She breathed heavily as the sting increased and made her legs jostle. The swats kept coming. She lost count. Tears stung at her eyes. Her legs kicked involuntarily. She squirmed over his lap. His free hand kept her pinned in place with ease.
Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. She was breathless. Her butt was bouncing, breasts were swaying, legs were kicking and then the spanking stopped. The paddle rested against her bottom. It felt cool against her hot butt. Her breathing evened out and the tears stopped falling. She sniffled and wiped at her face with the back of her hand.
He tapped the paddle lightly on her panties. “Time for these to come off,” he said.
She looked up at him, over her shoulder. “Please, I’ve learned my lesson. I promise.”
He delivered a rapid six swats that left her yelping. “You’re going to get just as many with them off as you get with them on. Do you want to take them off now or shall I continue a while longer?”
Charlotte pushed herself up off his lap and rose back to her feet. She wanted to stand there taking as much time away from being over his lap as she could, but she knew his patience would be strained. Her fingers found the waistband of her panties and she pulled them down her legs until they fell all the way to the floor. She folded them into a square and placed them with the rest of her clothes on the coffee table.
He patted his lap.
She bit her lip and laid herself back down. His cold hand secured her to him and the paddle resumed its smacking of her bottom. The sting doubled and redoubled. Tears spilled from her eyes again and she began yelping in an almost rhythmic response to the paddle’s loud smacks. Her butt burned like standing too close to an open fireplace. She kicked and squirmed, but as before, he held her in place.
The spanking came to an end. It took a few moments before her breathing returned to normal, before the tears stopped falling, before her legs stopped kicking. She sniffled and wiped at her face with the back of her hand. His hand remained pressed against her naked back, the paddle rested against her burning hot buttocks. She waited.
He said, “You’ve got at least a half hour before dinner. In that time you are going to go upstairs and clean your room, like you were supposed to do earlier today. If, when I come to get you for dinner, it’s not done, you’re going to spend all of dinner in the corner and afterward we will be taking a trip out to the stables. Now tell me, what happens when we take a trip to the stables?”
Her thoughts swirled around the mess in her room upstairs. Half an hour would barely make a dent in the disaster. “Please,” she said, intending to ask for more time.
He swatted her butt a dozen times with the paddle. “What happens?”
She pushed back against the sobs threatening to overrun her. “You’ll use the strap,” she said amidst sniffles.
“That’s right,” he said. He lifted her off his lap and onto her feet. “I suggest you get going.”
She reached for her clothes.
He slapped her hands away. “I told you to clean your room, not to get dressed. Now get going before I put you back over my knee.”
She coddled her burning butt in her hands and rushed toward the stairs. Her hands massaged at her cheeks all the way up the stairs. Inside her bedroom she closed the door and began shoveling clothes off the floor and into the hamper as fast as she could manage. She straightened the dresser and closed its drawers properly. The shoes stacked neatly inside the closet. Her ears prickled at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The bed remained unmade. She hustled toward it. Her hands pulled at the sheets, desperate to get them into place. The door opened.
Charlotte gasped. Her eyes snapped open. She blinked and the room came slowly into focus. Sunlight shined in through the window. She sat up and realized she wasn’t in the sitting room, but rather one of the upstairs bedrooms. It looked eerily similar to the one in her dream. Her butt ached, no doubt a remnant of the spanking she dreamed. She shivered. It was cold. A glance down at herself told her why; she was naked.
She rolled off the bed onto her feet. Her butt still ached. She twisted for a glimpse and saw red. It couldn’t be. She pulled the sheet off the dresser, exposing its mirror. The reflection left no doubt. Her butt was vibrantly red with the marks of an oval paddle the size of a hairbrush. She searched the room for her clothes and came up empty. Embarrassed, she tiptoed downstairs, hoping no one would be around. Her hands did their best to cover her nakedness.
In the sitting room, she found her clothing. It was neatly folded and piled on the coffee table. Her shoes rested on the floor at the foot of the table. It was all just like in her dream. Impossible. She dressed and heard the sound of car on the gravel outside. Billy had arrived.
She ran outside and hugged him as soon as stepped out of the car. “You’re here.”
He hugged her back. “You have no idea what I went through to find you.”
She kissed him. “Thank you. Let’s fix my tire so we can get out of here.”
He chuckled. “Not so fast.” He pulled her hairbrush out of his jacket pocket. “Let’s go inside and take care of this.”
She shook her head. “It can wait until we get home.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got a strap waiting for you when we get home. Now get inside or do you want me to spank your bare bottom right out here?”
Charlotte rubbed her sore butt. “Please Billy. You don’t understand.”
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the house. “I understand perfectly,” he said, “and in a few minutes you’re going to understand.”
She followed him into the house, straight into the sitting room. He sat in the center of the sofa. She stood by his leg. He looked up at her, holding the hairbrush firmly in his hand. She undressed. He pulled her over his lap.
“You’ve already been spanked today?” he said.
“I was trying to tell you,” she said.
He patted her butt with the back of the hairbrush. “Considering you broke into this house and spent the night without permission, I guess you deserved it. Hopefully the owners won’t mind me following suit.”
Charlotte imagined they wouldn’t.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Rosecliff, Episode 028

Britney Pearce

We, my roommates, Amy, Kate and Paula, and I sat together in the common room at the end of the day. The television was tuned to one of those science programs featuring ants from South America that could devour everything off a human skeleton in a matter of seconds. Of course the human skeletons remaining were living breathing people prior to the ant attack. It seemed an awful way to die and just being in the same room as the program was sure to make sleeping a bit more difficult. We did our best to ignore the grotesque programming and played our typical evening game of Spank Girl. It’s a rather simple variation of another popular word game that revolves around stick figures.
Amy picked the words, calling them a title as our one and only hint. Every time it was my turn I guessed a wrong letter and got a little more of the girl drawn. My thoughts really weren’t on the game. I could tell Kate was more or less feeling the same way. It’s like that on days you get punished for something. Come after dinner, you don’t want to hang out in the common room. The less you’re wearing the more you want to be somewhere else and Kate and I were stripped down to panties, socks and shoes. There wasn’t much more to lose. All I really wanted to do was crawl into my bed and forget about the awful day. I guess Kate felt the same.
Paula got annoyed with us when we lost. She’s avoided a spanking for a little bit so she’s starting to think of herself as being better than the rest of us. That happens. The next spanking is the cure, but sometimes a girl can go a while between spankings. Especially those of us that have been here a long time and more or less know how it all works. Still, the spankings always return, even when you think you’ve got yourself covered from every angle. All it takes is a Monitor, like Carol Sato, to throw a wrench (is that better called a paddle?) into things. And one spanking has a tendency to lead toward another and another.
Paula rolled her eyes and shook her head at the ceiling. “Did you two get your brains knocked out of your heads when you got spanked this morning?”
Kate scowled at Paula. The two of them didn’t always get along even in the best of times. “How about you strip down to your panties and we see how focused you are then?”
Paula smiled and fluttered her eyelashes at Kate. “It’s a consequence of not behaving, Kate. No wonder you’re constantly getting in trouble if you stop focusing on what you’re doing whenever you’re a little embarrassed by your situation.”
I touched Paula’s arm, distracting her attention away from Kate. “You know it’s not that simple. I’ve been over four years and I’m still not used to walking around half naked or worse.”
Kate leaned into the table. “And today was worse cause it wasn’t even fair. I mean she was late to class and then punishes us as if we were interrupting her teaching when she wasn’t even there.”
Paula laughed. “The rules are the rules. Just cause the teacher is not there to enforce them doesn’t mean you should stop following them and it certainly doesn’t mean you should get away with breaking them.”
I shook my head. “You wouldn’t feel that way if it was your butt.”
Paula smiled. “It’s not my butt because I know better and wouldn’t have done what you two did in the first place. As far as I’m concerned, you got off light.”
Fortunately, the evening bell rang, signalling time for bed. Further conversation was only going to lead to trouble and neither Kate nor I need more trouble. Paula and Amy, well sometimes I think they could use an extra spanking or two, just to remind them they aren’t quite perfect either. If I were a monitor I could do that, but I’m not. Then again, Abigail’s status as a monitor was definitely in jeopardy after her latest stunt. Maybe I’d get the opportunity again. I could always tell Ms. Chambers I’d like the chance. Definitely something better to think about in bed than those damn ants.

Monday, October 29, 2012

Rosecliff, Episode 027

Margaret Lange

The remaining girls introduced themselves without incident. There was Gillian Shafer, a 19 year old brunette who looked even younger due to her rather short stature. She, like me, was assigned to Tanzanite House. Her sentence was seven years for grand theft auto. Tamara Boles, a 25 year old, tall, average built woman with black hair and ebony skin was assigned to Citrine House. Her crime was vandalism resulting in a 3 year stay at the Institute. There was Sophia Lamar, a 22 year old, redhead with sparkling green eyes and an impressive athletic form with ample, if not abundant curvature. She was convicted of petty theft and sentenced to 2 years residing in Peridot House. Next, was an 18 year old, blonde haired, blue eyed girl of average body type, curvy and well proportioned, named Misty Hauser. She was assigned to Peridot House for a three year stint over a case of breaking and entering into the administration building of her former high school. It sounded a lot like a prank gone wrong, but apparently the school district had a zero tolerance policy and a district attorney that backed it up. Evelyn Davenport was the oldest in the room at 28. She was a fairly tall brunette with a lithe, well-toned form. Her crime was assaulting a police officer which resulted in a three year sentence with her assigned to Ruby House. Last, there was Willow Singh, a 27 year old asian woman with a gymnasts’ build. Assigned to Sapphire House, she was sentenced to two years for contempt of court.
Mrs. Rosecliff removed the two tongue tawse from its hook beside the door, grabbed Rhonda from her place in the line and dragged her to the same spot we had all introduced ourselves from, only this time Rhonda was naked save for her socks and shoes and her bare butt was facing the rest of us rather than her angry face. The tip of the tawse pointed at Rhonda’s shoes. Mrs. Rosecliff said, “Bend down and touch your toes.”
Rhonda’s head turned in Mrs. Rosecliff’s direction. “And what if I don’t, Mrs. Rosecliff?”
Mrs. Rosecliff’s eyes seemed to sparkle with delight. A smile, devilish and dangerous, formed on her pink lips. “Then you’ll find out that the punishment for resisting punishment is far worse than taking what you’re due. I’ll give you to the count of three to decide which punishment you prefer. If you’re not touching your toes, things will get a lot worse for you, but it’s really your decision.”
They stared at each other. Mrs. Rosecliff’s smile seemed to grow by the second. She said, “One.”
Rhonda huffed. I could see a slight frown on her face.
Rhonda faced forward and bent down, stretching her fingers out until they brushed the tops of her shoes. Her brown hair dangled on the floor and her cheeks turned rosy as she stared at the line of us girls from between her legs. I felt awkward looking back at her, especially given her exposure, naked buttocks, slightly parted, vulva protruding and of course her breasts hanging toward her neck with stiff nipples. The only way to not look was to close my eyes and something told me that closing my eyes in front of Mrs. Rosecliff could result in sharing Rhonda’s embarrassment in a much more personal and interactive manner. It was a possibility I preferred avoiding, though I realized embarrassing spankings and other punishments were a fact of life at Rosecliff.
Mrs. Rosecliff took up a proper position behind and to the side of Rhonda. She lashed the tawse down on Rhonda’s pale buttocks the promised total of 22 times, turning the fair-colored skin a bright, hot red. Each stroke was accompanied by a dullish thud and snap. Rhonda counted aloud, cried, sniffled, yelped and moaned throughout the ordeal. The last strokes were clearly the worst, aimed at the upper thighs, just beneath the buttocks. Rhonda nearly howled through them.
After the spanking, Mrs. Rosecliff retrieved a bar of soap from her desk at the front of the room. She wet it in the classroom sink, mounted on the front wall, near the left corner of the room. Rhonda was made to face us, given the bar of soap and instructed to insert it into her own mouth, massaging it around her tongue, teeth and cheeks. White soapy drool ran from the corners of her mouth. Mrs. Rosecliff instructed her to fully insert the bar in her mouth, clamp down on it with her teeth and stand in the corner facing the classroom for the remainder of the class time. It was probably only about ten minutes, but I rather imagine it seemed an eternity to the crying Rhonda.

Friday, October 26, 2012

Rosecliff, Episode 026

Margaret Lange

“My name is Helen Rosecliff.” The blonde woman said from the front of the small classroom. She wore her hair in a tight bun that gave her angular features a severe look. Her hand thrust into the air displaying a delicate diamond ring. “I am Walter Rosecliff’s wife which means you will address me as Mrs. Rosecliff.” She looked over the ten of us standing before her. “When you have been given information it is appropriate to acknowledge it with a polite affirmation.”
I knew what she expected. Some of the others did as well, but a few of the girls seemed completely oblivious to Mrs. Rosecliff’s expectations. Those of us who knew spoke in rough unison, “Yes, Mrs. Rosecliff.” The oblivious girls followed a moment later.
Mrs. Rosecliff gave the slightest of nods. Her expression betrayed no emotion, good or bad. She looked us over for a long, silent moment. “Starting from the left, each of you will step forward and introduce yourself, your age, your house assignment, your conviction and the length of your expected stay at the Institute.” Her hand gesture made it clear she meant her left, rather than ours.
“Yes, Mrs. Rosecliff,” we replied.
The first girl stepped forward. Her legs trembled and she wrung her hands together in front of her skirt. She kept her head low, staring at the floor while her blonde hair dipped in front of her face. Her voice was soft and quiet like water trickling from a faucet. “I’m Teresa Martel from Sapphire House. I’m 22 years old and I was convicted of hazing and sentenced to four years here.” She immediately walked back to her place on the wall.
Mrs. Rosecliff fixed her gaze on Teresa once she was facing forward again. “We’ll work on your speech and grammar.”
Teresa lowered her head farther. “Yes, Mrs. Rosecliff.”
The next girl stepped forward. She exhibited all the confidence Teresa lacked. Her brown hair was tied neatly back in a ponytail and it bounced off her back as she walked and smartly turned to face the line of us. She smiled, friendly and domineering. “Rhonda Bartley. 24. I’m assigned to Ruby House. My conviction was for perjury because my dumbass boyfriend couldn’t keep his story straight. I’ll be here for three years.” She marched back to her spot.
Mrs. Rosecliff stared stared straight into Rhonda’s brown eyes. “We do not tolerate derogatory language at the Institute.” She tapped on her tablet for a moment and then returned her stare to Rhonda. “Strip down to your socks and shoes. We’ll wash your mouth out with soap after everyone else has done their introductions and give you a 22 swat spanking. After class you’ll visit Dean Rosecliff for another mouthsoaping and spanking. I trust you’ll have learned your lesson by bedtime and will allow you to dress again tomorrow morning.”
Rhonda’s expression soured. “Yes, Mrs. Rosecliff.” Her tone said the opposite, but she stripped down to her socks and shoes without another word.
From beside Rhonda, another brunette stepped forward, similar in build to Rhonda. She appeared less confident though, her hands pressed flat against the sides of her skirt. “My name is Celeste Simons and I am 23 years old. I was assigned to Citrine House. My crime was shoplifting and I am here for the next four years.” She returned to her place in line.
Mrs. Rosecliff said. “Thank you, Celeste.”
Following Celeste, a tall blonde stepped forward. Her blue eyes were watery as if she were fighting back tears. Her legs seemed to tremble and voice wavered as she spoke. “I am Misty Hauser, 18 years old. Peridot House is my current residence for the next three years because I was found guilty of breaking and entering into the administration building at my former high school.” She returned to the line.
Next, was my turn. I stepped forward and faced the line. “My name is Margaret Lange and I’m 21 years old. I am assigned to Tanzanite House. My conviction was for accessory to theft and I’ve been sentenced to five years.” I returned to my place.

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Rosecliff, Episode 025

Britney Pearce

Kate and I stood at the front of the classroom, attired in only our white panties, socks, and black Mary Janes. Ms. Rutherford laid her textbook on the podium and took the brown leather strap from its hook near the door. She looked us both over as if inspecting what little remained of our uniforms for flaws. Apparently, she found none.
Her voice lacked compassion. “Lower your panties to your knees and touch your toes.”
“Yes, Miss,” we replied and complied without hesitation. I can’t say I appreciated the upside down view of my classmates though.
Ms. Rutherford said, “I’ll not tolerate the disruption of unsolicited speech in this classroom. Britney, as you attempted to hide Kate’s involvement and have a rather busy record of minor offenses over the last month, you’ll receive 22 strokes. Kate, in recognition of your honesty and generally clean disciplinary record, you’ll receive 18. Do you girls find that fair?”
Did it matter? I badly wanted to ask the question, though I knew it would only bring more trouble.
“Yes, Miss,” we replied.
Ms. Rutherford took up position behind Kate. “Britney, you will count Kate’s strokes. Any mistake or murmuring will add strokes to your own spanking. Understood?”
“Yes, Miss,” I said.
I listened for the contact. The strap makes little noise passing through the air. But on contact, the strap can produce a variety of sounds ranging from a dull thud to a sharp snap. The way its swung and the amount of force are significant factors as well as the quality and thickness of the leather. My time at Rosecliff had taught me that not all straps and not all strappings were equal.
Ms. Rutherford’s efforts resulted in the sharp snap. It echoed in the room and made me and every other bystander blink. Kate inhaled a sharp, squeaky breath. I watched her body jerk and her legs wobble. Her panties slipped a little farther down her legs.
“One,” I said.
The strap connected again. I counted, figuring Kate would rather get the spanking over with quickly rather than having long delays between strokes. Ms. Rutherford had no problem keeping pace. I counted and listened as Kate’s breaths turned sharper. If she shed tears I could hear no signs of them. The sting of 18 with the strap would undoubtedly be faded by lunch and a mere memory by dinner. Even the 22 coming for me would be weatherable. The standard straps in the classroom weren’t meant for leaving girls dancing around the class and nursing their backsides the rest of the day. They were just attention getters and they did the job well.
After Kate’s 18 were finished, Ms. Rutherford moved on to me. It was Kate’s turn to count while I concentrated on staying in position and breathing through the sharp spikes of attention gathering heat and sting being imparted on my bare butt. After the first dozen, the pace increased. It seemed a mere second interval between loud snapping contacts. My butt burned from the center of the cheeks all the way down to the tops of my thighs. I couldn’t fault Ms. Rutherford’s technique. Her efforts resulted in what I would call the most significant, and painful, strapping I’d received in a classroom. Tears even stung at the corners of my eyes when Kate counted the last stroke.
Ms. Rutherford said, “Stand up girls, hands on your heads.”
We obliged. I blinked back tears. The even lines of the strap across my butt felt as pronounced as if they were strips of tape, tugging and pulling at my skin.
Ms. Rutherford said, “You two can stand against the wall in the hallway for the remainder of today’s class. I’ll let you know when you can pull your panties up and go to your next class. Understood?”
“Yes, Miss,” we replied.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Rosecliff, Episode 024

Scarlet Watts

23 girls stared at me. They sat straight-backed in their hard chairs. Their backs were turned to the computer workstations that lined the perimeter of the classroom. Ms. Chambers stood behind me against the wall, beside the door. I stood in the center of the room, exposed from all angles. My thoughts struggled to remain on topic.
“Keyboarding,” I said, feeling the intense scrutiny of a freckled redhead, Lindsay Owens, on my left staring at my sore buttocks, “or typing is one of the most fundamental skills in working with computers.”
A snort drew my attention to the right side of the class. I could not identify the source, but I suspected the brunette, Vicki Stephens. Her gaze seemed inappropriately focused on my naked breasts. Envious, no doubt. I glared my way through the moment, until I felt control of the room was back in my hands.
I said, “By the time you leave this class, you’ll know every key on the keyboard by memory and be able to type accurately without looking at a screen or watching your fingers. Some of you may even reach speeds of up to 90 words per minute.”
Control slipped again. Vicki’s brown eyes taunted me. Lindsay masked her amusement behind a facade of impassivity. I glanced toward the door and Ms. Chambers. She smiled. My situation pleased her. A streak of tension clenched my buttocks and reminded me of their tenderness. Ms. Chambers’ paddling, followed by Dean Rosecliff’s at dinner had ensured a restless night.
I turned back to my class. The blonde, Cheryl Foster, sitting in the middle of the workstations along the far wall, quickly erased a smile from her lips. Her blue eyes laughed at me. The temptation to paddle every girl in the room was almost overwhelming. Ms. Chambers would never allow it. They had said nothing, broken no rules. I closed my eyes, reaching inside for control.
The moment was teaching. Dean Rosecliff had hoped his demonstration would teach me the impact such punishments would have on the girls. It did indeed. Focusing on the tasks at hand was far more difficult than it should have been. The embarrassment, the shame, even the pain, kept returning and dominating my thoughts.
With my Uncle, punishments had always been the same. When it was over, I was always grateful. I learned my lessons and here I was learning that the intense methods still worked best. Less than three days into a five day punishment I was already intent on making certain the girls in my classes learned the same hard lessons I had learned. They would all be the better for it.
“Your first assignment,” I said, “is to take out your notebook and draw a picture of the keyboard on your desk,” The shuffle of girls digging for their notebooks and pencils filled the room. I smiled. “without looking at it.”
A few gasps came from around the room.
“Be as accurate as possible,” I said. Maybe Ms. Chambers would allow me to discipline the girls whose drawings were more than 30% inaccurate.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Rosecliff, Episode 023

Britney Pearce

“I heard she was called to the Dean’s office,” said Kate Morris. She tossed the long strands of her strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder as she leaned closer to me in her desk.
I stared at the shut classroom door for a long moment before surrendering my attention to Kate. We’d been friends and roommates since her arrival. She was one of the few girls actually older than me at the Institute, though I had a year’s seniority on her in my stay. I glanced around the classroom. Most of the girls were smart enough to use the few minutes of our teacher’s absence to read from the textbook. Kate and I had used our free period Sunday evening to read the first three chapters.
“Ms. Rutherford?” I asked in a hushed voice.
Kate nodded. “Amy heard Ms. Chambers talking to Mrs. Rosecliff. Apparently, Ms. Rutherford went into town last night and didn’t come back until like 3 AM.”
My thoughts immediately ran toward Paula and I Saturday afternoon in town. It sounded like Ms. Rutherford had a boy of her own. Obviously, teachers and staff have a bit more flexibility, well not physically, than the students when it comes to relationships. Still, on school nights, Sunday through Thursday, the houses are supposed to be locked down by midnight. Either Ms. Rutherford spent the night on the front steps or she snuck into the building and got caught. Regardless, it was considered out of bounds and subject to discipline from the Dean.
I glanced toward the door again. Still no sign of anyone. “Wouldn’t Ms. Chambers be here to sub if she knew Ms. Rutherford would be detained?” I asked.
Kate shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time Amy exaggerated, but you got admit it has credence given Ms. Rutherford’s absence.”
“She could just be running late,” I said.
The click of the door closing startled me. Ms. Rutherford, leveled her brown eyes on me from the front of the room. She held the textbook under her arm. “Britney Pearce isn’t it?”
I straightened in my chair, facing the front of the classroom without meeting Ms. Rutherford’s intimidating gaze. “Yes, Miss.”
“You’ve been here four years and counting, correct?” she asked.
“Yes, Miss.” I could have broken it down into hours and minutes for her, but the details seemed unimportant.
“I would think you’d have learned the rules by now,” she said.
“Sorry, Miss,” I said, biting my lip. There was always hope to avoid discipline on the first day of a new term, but Ms. Rutherford’s reputation mostly squashed that hope. It also seemed Amy’s eavesdropping lacked any ties to reality. Ms. Rutherford wore her typical stern expression and a complete tan skirt suit, including a white blouse, nude stockings, and beige heels. Not a thread out of place, suggesting that the worst part of her morning was walking into the room and listening to one of her students casually talk about her tardiness. “I was just thinking aloud.”
Ms. Rutherford rolled her eyes at me. “You were talking. The only question is who else was talking with you?”
I swallowed hard. Giving up a friend for punishment is not the sort of thing a girl does at Rosecliff. At least if she doesn’t want to spend her entire sentence being abused by the other girls. Keeping quiet didn’t always work with the teachers, but most of us figure out its better to turn ourselves in when push comes to shove than force a friend to do it.
Kate cleared her throat. “It was me Ms. Rutherford. I started the conversation. Britney was only answering my question.”
Ms. Rutherford nodded. “Thank you, Kate. I appreciate your honesty.” Her gaze shifted between us. “Strip down to your panties and come to the front of the room, girls.”