Operation Scorched Arse

My thanks to the many guests who have stopped by during the festive season. I hope that you have had a good rummage around the site and have found plenty to entertain you in my absence. The next wave of house-guests has arrived and my amateur culinary skills are in full flow and ebb. However, I thought that I would take a few minutes and post a few chapters from Volume 2 of the Woody Back to School Unit saga, ‘Operation Scorched Arse’ … kick-back and enjoy … full service will resume in the near future … Bottoms Up! … RH

Ms Lawton reviewed the two punishment reports gloomily.

“You knew that Morton had been chucked out of assembly and had just received a mandatory bare bender, didn’t you?” she asked.

Ms Whitton grinned. “Oh yes,” she said smugly. “But you told me to beat her whenever the opportunity arose and she was late for orchestra practice so I gave her a damn good thrashing.”

The Grand Dame sighed. Theoretically the Music Dame was correct. When she had first initiated the harsh regime of Operation Scorched Arse she had specifically instructed the Dames to treat Deborah Morton with extreme prejudice. Nonetheless, as she looked over the two reports again she couldn’t help feeling that Ms Whitton had taken the definition of extreme prejudice to the limit.

“Morton, Phase 5, step up for goofing,” screeched Janet Mitchell, waving her red card in the air.

Deborah rolled her eyes and groaned. She slowly stood up and struggled passed her seated chums. At the end of the row of seats Mitch the Bitch was positively glowing with delight.

“Gotcha,” she gloated as Deborah approached. “And by the way, your tie’s undone,” she cackled.

Deborah groaned again.

She had been standing in disgrace at the front of the hall for almost ten minutes. She had done her best to look nonchalant but from the way she kept pursing her lips and drumming her fingers against the sides of her legs it was clear that she was nervous and agitated.

Debs heart began to pound uncomfortably as she heard the click-clack of heels in the corridor outside the hall. Momentarily the doors swung open and the first members of the Brass entered.

The first wave barely paid her any heed, although several of the liberals, including Dotty Hammell, Pauline Gascoigne, Stephanie Powell and Jane Lummell threw her sympathetic smiles. The last of the Brass to enter were the Wart and Patty Hodge. They strode purposefully towards her.

“Oh you’re going to make Ms Lawton’s day,” gloated the Wart. “I hope she thrashes you so hard you can’t sit down for a week.”

Deborah did her best not to flinch.

Patty grinned wolfishly and reached into her jacket pocket. She produced a red card and waved it in the air.

“Morton, Phase 5, red card for zero-tolerance collar and tie abuse,” she announced gleefully. “Make an appointment with Miss Beck for a mandatory slippering.”

Deborah felt her cheeks turn red.

Deborah Morton was sweating. The past twenty minutes had been most disagreeable. When Ms Lawton had arrived in the assembly hall she was plainly displeased to encounter Deborah and had made her feelings quite clear. She had verbally trashed Debs for several minutes before dismissing her with the ominous warning that she intended to beat her very, very soundly.

Katie Beck had been delighted to see Deborah. The unfortunate state of Debs collar and tie gave the unit’s matron the opportunity to subject her to a comprehensive clobber inspection.

Deborah was notoriously clobber challenged and was consistently ranked amongst the five worst dressed inmates at the facility.

Katie took her time. Deborah stood with her hands on her head as the matron inspected every stitch of her clobber. Katie was a true artiste when it came to inspection. She started at the front, working her way down every individual button, looking for chips, loose threads or signs of premature discoloration. She checked every seam of Deborah’s blouse and skirt. All the while she gave Debs a colorful commentary regarding the rump roasting she planned to give her the following morning.

Moving to the rear Katie was even more spiteful. She tut-tutted as she ran her fingers over more seams and muttered, “well, well and what have we here?” It was most disconcerting.

Bottom inspection was no better. Katie left Debs sprawled bare arsed across the desk in the ante-room for a full five minutes before she came in to prod and pinch her backside.

Finally Deborah was left to stand on the landing, her hands on her head and her nose pressed to the wall while she waited anxiously for the arrival of the Grand Dame. Deborah Morton couldn’t think of a more disagreeable way to start the day.

Deborah Morton was sweating. Ms Lawton was an extremely articulate woman by nature and was at her most expressive when it came to the subject of malfeasance. Unfortunately for Deborah her lengthy history of mega-minxdom gave the Grand Dame copious scope to wax eloquent. Forced to stand to stiff attention, eyes front and still as a statue Deborah had no alternative but to chow down on an unappetizing ration of tongue pie.

Deborah unfastened the top button of her red and black striped blazer and shrugged it off. She felt totally drained. She felt as if she had been mauled by a mountain lion. The eloquent condemnation of her general misbehavior had seemed interminable and Deborah was almost relieved when Ms Lawton finally stepped out from behind her desk and crossed the room to the tall-boy that housed her collection of canes. But the Grand Dame hadn’t quite finished. Deborah groaned inwardly as she was unexpectedly sucker-punched.

“And one more thing, Morton,” announced Ms Lawton as she selected a long thin cane and swished it through the air. “I’m about sick of your persistent collar and tie abuse. I’m going to instruct Katie to give you a double slippering in the morning. Now remove your blazer and bend over the chair.”

Deborah thrust her hands into the pockets of her blazer as she tottered out of the Grand Dames study. There was no question that Ms Lawton had made good on her promise and beaten Deborah very, very soundly. Debs felt as if smoke was billowing out from underneath her skirt. Over the years Deborah’s rear end had become a well-calibrated whopometer but she didn’t need to inspect any gauges to know that she had just been totally nailed.

Ms Lawton took several deep breathes. Deborah was folded over the straight-backed chair in front of the fireplace. The skirt of her skirt and the tail of her blouse were meticulously folded back. Her navy blue gossamer bumbags were concertinaed around her ankles.

The Grand Dame took a tight grip on the thirty-six inch long cane and tapped it downwards.

Ms Lawton prided herself on her even-handedness. She came from the school of hard-whops and knew from bitter experience what it was like to be personally targeted. During the first four years of Deborah’s sentence she had been sympathetic towards her celebrity inmate. She had suspected that Deborah’s spectacular arrest and subsequent trashing in the press had been government vehicles to distract attention from yet another economic folly.

She had admired Deborah’s intellect, musical prowess and sporting brilliance. Despite Deborah’s natural tendency towards naughtiness the Grand Dame had indulged her and treated her as the golden gal. However, all that had changed in one trivial moment of collar and tie abuse and the events that succeeded it. No matter how hard she tried the Grand Dame was forced to concede that Deborah Morton had made a dizzying descent to the role of her personal bête noire.

She raised her arm slightly higher than normal and whipped the rattan rod through the air.

Deborah was having considerable difficulty putting it up and keeping it up. Ms Lawton always caned hard but this morning she was really putting her arm into it and every full-bloodied swipe made Debs teeth-chatter and her nerve-endings jangle. It took all her grit and determination to keep from howling.

Despite their differences Ms Lawton had considerable respect for Deborah’s ability to take a licking with the minimum of fuss. She waited patiently between strokes, confident that Deborah would eventually settle back into the required position for the thrashing to proceed. Nonetheless, she could tell from the protracted wiggling and jiggling of Deborah’s buttocks and the heartfelt pants she could hear her victim emitting that she had thoroughly nailed Debs Morton.

Debs wriggled through the corridors, her arse on fire. It was Saturday morning and she needed to go to her study and pick up her clarinet for orchestra practice.

She crossed the quadrangle and making sure that there were no prefects lurking about she slipped behind the accommodation wing and sought out Rosemary’s cigarette stash pile. Debs didn’t really smoke, just one or two a week when she was feeling stressed and with her bum blazing like a furnace she was feeling particularly stressed.

She sucked down on the fag and looked down at her watch. The visit with Ms Lawton had been so protracted that she had missed almost half the practice. Nonetheless she wasn’t too concerned. The piece that Ms Whitton had chosen for the recital was familiar and the last two rehearsals had gone swimmingly. She stubbed out her fag and flicked it into a nearby compost heap.

She headed back to the front door of the accommodation wing to fetch her clarinet and wished that her arse didn’t burn so ferociously.

“I’m sorry I’m late Ma’am,” Deborah muttered and hurried towards the empty seat amongst the orchestra.

“Where do you think you’re going?” snapped Ms Whitton.

“To take my place Ma’am,” responded Debs.

“Oh no you don’t young lady, you will repair to the music room and bring me the Morton Special” said the Music Dame.

Deborah gaped at the instructor incredulously. “Whadaya mean?” she spluttered.

“You’re late,” said Ms Whitton imperiously. “Mandatory six of the best.”

Debs continued to gape. “But you know why I’m late,” she gasped. “I was in the Grand Dame’s study.”

“That’s no excuse, this whole rehearsal has been a fiasco due to your selfish behavior,” retorted Ms Whitton, “now do as you’re told and bring me my bow.”

“This is ridiculous,” Debs snapped back. “You’re not going to beat me for this.”

“Are you refusing to obey me?” asked Ms Whitton.

“You’re damn right I am,” said Debs obstinately.

“Very well Morton, I shall send someone else to fetch the bow and in the meantime I shall summons Jacqueline Ivanhoe and Yvonne Godfrey and I will have you held down.”

The tension in the Great Hall was palpable.

“You rotten fucking bitch,” Debs blurted out. “This is so fucking bogus.”

“I’ll count to five Miss Morton, it’s your choice.”

Deborah trudged through the corridors carrying the wooden violin bow that Ms Whitton had commissioned for the sole purpose of beating her. Her mind was racing; the heat in her backside was showing no signs of diminishing. The prospect of being thrashed with the customized rod was unthinkable.

Deborah desperately fought back her tears. The pain was excruciating. She was sprawled out across a low lying piano stool, her arms and legs stretched out into a full drape, her head well down and her arse well up. She sensed the Music Dame stepping in for the final swipe and squeezed her eyes tight.

Ms Whitton was a burly cove and was notorious for the venom with which she wielded the violin bow. When she commissioned the particular bow that she was wielding from a purveyor in Southern Brazil she had specified an unusual stiffness for the shaft, explaining that it was for display purposes only. It was a truly lethal weapon.

Deborah’s whole body reacted uncontrollably. Her legs kicked back, her hands gripped her head and she writhed so much that she almost rolled off the stool. It was a tremendous strike. The echo of wood rebounding off tautened gossamer reverberated around the far corners of the hall.

Debs looked ashen as she handed over her personal punishment record book for post-processing. The collar and tie that she had restored to a non-abusive condition was now skew-whiff. Her hair looked unkempt and the light trace of mascara she was allowed to wear was smudged across her face.

Wordlessly Ms Whitton annotated the book and then without warning she pointed back at the stool. “Now bend over again,” she said curtly.

Debs mouth opened and her chin wagged but no sounds came out.

“You cussed me out,” snapped Ms Whitton, “now bend over or I shall have you collared and taken up to the Grand Dames and demand you are given a public flogging.”

Deborah Morton gaped at the music instructor. For a moment she said nothing and remained glued to the spot. Then finally she glared defiantly at Ms Whitton.

“You’ll never make me howl and you’ll never make me blub,” she said rebelliously and then hopelessly she leaned down and stretched her body out across the stool.

Ms Lawton removed the cap of her pen and wearily signed her name at the bottom of the two punishment reports. Ms Whitton was looking positively smug as she strutted out of the door. The Grand Dame sighed and put her head in her hands.

“Extreme prejudice,” chortled Ms Whitton in the saloon bar of the Bunch of Grapes. “I redefined extreme. Morton won’t be sitting down comfortably for a month.”

“Good work,” saluted Patty Hodge. She raised her glass in the air. “To Operation Scorched Arse and may it never end.”

Katie Beck, the Wart and Ms Whitton chinked glasses and winked conspiratorially.