My apologies for the long absence but even for the most devout spanko realities of vanilla life sometimes rudely intervene … however I am pleased to report that I have finally managed to find the time to start writing the yet to be named Volume 40 of the Woody Back to School Unit Saga and we are pleased to present this little preview taster featuring yet another unfortunate incident in the mercurial life inside the navy blue gossamer bumbags of one of the saga’s main protagonists, Miss Deborah Morton … my thanks to the many new visitors who have taken the time to investigate the portfolio of work on our little site … there are thirty-nine full volumes of the Woody Back to School Unit saga available for download in Library I and numerous other Woody related writings and ramblings in Library II … the galleries contain over a hundred completely original toons that I have commissioned over the last eighteen months … and you know what? … the best thing about this? … Everything at Woodys is ABSOLUTELY FREE and COMMERCIAL FREE … So please … enjoy this little sampler and then hang about and have a good old rummage around … I’m not certain of the protocols regarding the naming of new wines but the word ‘Naked’ seems to be all the vogue … I can strongly recommend the ‘Simply Naked Unoaked Chardonnay’ and the ‘Naked Grape’s Pinot Noir’ … they are both widely available, inexpensive and will act as excellent accompaniments to a long and leisurely stroll through the libraries and galleries of the Woody Back to School Unit … so kick-back and enjoy … Bottoms Up! … RH

Debs and Katie

Deborah Morton sat down on one of the stone benches in the cloisters and lit a very crumpled fag that she had kept secreted in her blazer pocket for exactly this kind of situation. Debs was in no particular hurry to cut along to the Grand Masters office for the sole purpose of bending over the back of a chair for twelve strokes of the cane.

She took a deep drag on the cigarette. Debs wasn’t really a smoker but it gave her the opportunity to gather her thoughts. As usual she was slightly bewildered by her own ridiculous behavior.

With just five minutes remaining of a mathematics lecture Deborah had interrupted the proceedings by cracking wise. Ms Reed had shown Debs a yellow card and curtly warned her, “Another peep out of you, Morton and I’m sending you up. Do you understand me?”

It would have been a simple matter for Deborah to nod her head and meekly reply, “Yes Ma’am,” and then quietly sit out the remaining few minutes of the lecture. Instead, inexplicably, Debs Morton responded my rolling her eyes theatrically and drawling, “Yeah, rock on Ma’am, whatever,” in a most supercilious manner.

Reed the Weeds eyes popped out on stalks. Veins on her forehead began to throb and it looked like she might be suffering an aneurysm. Her face turned crimson. The Weed reached into the pocket of her jacket and extracted a red card. “Very well Morton, step up, step up this instant and inform the Grand Master that I want you thrashed. Soundly thrashed for gross insolence,” she screeched at the top of her lungs.

Deborah took a long drag on the fag and blew smoke out through her nostrils. She ground the barely smoked cigarette out with the heel of her highly polished shoe. It was sheer lunacy. There had been absolutely no benefit from her ridiculous response to Ms Reed, it had been neither satisfying nor amusing and now she was up to her bumbags in the serious business of whops. It was all most disconcerting.

Debs rolled her bumbags down to the tops of her thighs, hiked up her pleated black skirt then slid her upper torso across the varnished desk in the anteroom to Katie Becks office. She stretched out her arms until they dangled over the far side. She rested her chin on the tabletop and stared bleakly out of the window while she waited to be inspected.

Katie Beck stared down at Deborah’s tight muscular buttocks. For once Deborah’s rear end showed no tell-tale signs of recent activity involving canes, straps or slippers.

“Straighten your clothing and step next door,” Katie instructed. “I hope he thrashes you so hard you can’t sit down for a week,” she added nastily. She couldn’t help herself. Katie hated Deborah Morton with a passion. For seven long years Debs had treated her with nothing but disrespect and contempt.

Katie could still remember their first encounter. Deborah had publicly rubbished a member of the Elite, who had responded by arranging for Debs to receive a thirty-six-spank dusting from the Senior Brat Draper.

When Katie Beck had been appointed Red-shirt she had somehow convinced Ms Lawton to allow her to take on the additional responsibility of acting as the Senior Brat Draper. It was a role that she particularly relished.

Katie had been over-joyed when she learned that she was going to get the opportunity to dust the bumbags of the newly incarcerated celebrity tennis player. However her celebration was short-lived.

Katie had given it her best shot but when they were done Debs had hopped up and given Katie a long contemptuous and half-amused glare before going about her business. Katie had never forgiven Deborah for ruining her day.

Over the years Katie had been given plenty of opportunity to get even. Debs Morton was amongst the most clobber challenged gals in the community. She ranked number three for being slippered for Overall Clobber Abuse, and number one for her specialty of ‘Collar and Tie Abuse’. Katie Beck had spent many a morning with Deborah bent over her knee while she kick-started her circulation and roasted her rump with her leather-soled slippers. However, no matter how hard she tried or how much she put her arm into her endeavors Deborah made it her business to lay passively still and show only the minimum indication of any discomfort she might be experiencing. It was all most vexing to a whop junkie like Katie Beck.

Now that Deborah held the prestigious position of Red-shirt and her bumbags were off-limits to the unit’s Matron Katie had to satisfy herself with making snide comments when Deborah had the misfortune to be sent up to the Grand Master’s office to be punished.

Deborah pushed herself up from the desk. She reached under her skirt, rolled up her navy blue gossamer bumbags and straightened the tails of her blouse. She smoothed down her skirt and turned and looked in a mirror. In contrast to the eminently scruffy figure she had cut for most of her sentence she looked extremely spiffy in her tailored black hacking jacket, with five antique buttons down the front. Beneath the jacket she sported a red silk shirt with black braiding around the collar, and a neatly knotted black tie. She wore her lightly waved fair hair loose and it fell slightly past her shoulders. She wore just the faintest touch of make-up.

She turned away from the mirror and stopping only to give Katie Beck a condescending glance she strode out of the room.

“Get Morton! Get Morton!” muttered Katie under her breath as she watched Deborah step out onto the landing.

Whops on the Horizon

Mr Humphries listened patiently while Deborah recounted the events that had led up to her ejection from the lecture room. They both knew that there were whops on the horizon but it was part of the ritual to allow the accused the opportunity to offer some semblance of a defense no matter how spurious and unlikely their arguments. Besides, Deborah Morton was a notoriously eloquent advocate and the Grand Master was always entertained by her skill of introducing uncertainty into the most hopeless proceedings.

Years earlier Deborah had been forced to hone her skills of advocacy in the headquarters of the prefectorial body known as ‘the Posh’ at the Queensgate Academy, the austerely strict boarding school she had attended. The Dames at the academy considered themselves far too refined to actually administer punishment so they merely informed miscreants that they were being ‘Put on the Menu’. Gals on the menu were required to report to the Posh HQ that evening where they would be allowed to present a defense of their actions before the Posh Council.

It was a complex and ritualistic process whereby gals who felt that they were bang to rights could enter into plea bargains and plead guilty to lesser charges that attracted punishments more appealing than being thrashed with the ceremonial popping stick. Even gals who were guaranteed to be ‘popped’ could negotiate less strokes if they pleaded guilty and apologized for their sins.

Deborah Morton would establish a school record for being ‘Put on the Menu’. She appeared before the Posh Council over three hundred times and established not only the school record, but also the All-time national record for being caned. However, perhaps her most impressive record was the number of times she would successfully defend herself and be completely exonerated; leaving the HQ without even the most minor of punishments.

Deborah practiced a policy of pleading not guilty to all charges brought against her. She would defiantly try to establish enough reasonable doubt with regard to her intentions in the matter to sway the required majority to vote in her favor.

It was a risky game and Debs understood that whenever she was unsuccessful she had no leeway for negotiation and would often receive the harshest punishments available to the Posh.

At first she had reasoned that the difference between the number of strokes that she could save by plea bargaining was not a significant factor and if the choice was four strokes, three strokes or no strokes she was always going to shoot for the cool arse option. However there were a number occasions that she was forced to question the wisdom of her strategy. During several appearances in front of the Posh she had been offered the option of pleading guilty and receiving six pops. As usual she had defiantly rejected these offers and when her arguments for the defense fell on stony ground she was sentenced to the maximum punishment available to the prefectorial body. The lethal dose of nine strokes delivered across the seat of her bumbags.

“So this is how it went down, Sir,” began Deborah Morton. She was standing to attention in several feet in front of the Grand Master’s desk with her shoulders back and her arms by her sides.

Mr Humphries calmly observed Deborah’s performance. It was quite impressive. She spoke eloquently, providing a reasonable level of detail, and arguing with an earnest confidence that belied the fact that she was speaking unadulterated clap-trap. She never once criticized Ms Reed, merely arguing that the whole incident had been a matter of misunderstanding and misinterpretation. She maintained that her initial interjection into the proceedings had been a harmless joke and hardly worthy of a yellow card, and that her subsequent use of the terms ‘rock on’ and ‘whatever’ were acceptable contemporary expressions and should not even be construed as impertinence, let alone gross insolence.

“So this is how it is going to go down, Miss Morton,” said the Grand Master. “You are going to remove your blazer and bend over the back of the chair.”

Deborah was vaguely tempted to chuckle. It had all been so terribly polite. The Grand Master allowed her to prattle on without interruption, even giving the impression that he might even be giving her earnest argument some consideration. However, once she had finished he had calmly stood up and walked around his desk. He took off his suit jacket and hung it on a coat stand. He rolled back the cuffs of his white shirt and loosened his tie. Wordlessly he had crossed the room and approached the tallboy. Deborah had pursed her lips. This was always an unnerving moment. Unlike Ms Lawton who had strictly favored the cane Mr Humphries was an unpredictable cove and kept a wide assortment of menacing instruments in the cupboard. He opened the doors to the tallboy and Debs was treated to a display of numerous straps, tawses, paddles and dozens of canes all neatly hanging from hooks. She felt an apprehensive shiver up her spine as he reached into the cupboard and she waited to see which instrument would emerge.

Debs audibly groaned as the Grand Master extracted a cane that she recognized as being one of the most formidable in his collection; thirty-six inches of lethal Indonesian kooboo loontie rattan that he only used on very special occasions. Deborah Morton was in no doubt that the next few minutes of her life were going to prove to be extremely hot and very sweaty.

A Very Sound Beating

Deborah slowly unfastened the five buttons down the front of her tailored silk and cashmere blazer. She shrugged it off and hung it across the back of the chair. She looked apprehensively over her shoulder at the Grand Master. He was flexing the long slender rod between his hands. Deborah felt goose bumps covering her bare legs and tried to stop her knees from knocking.

“You may loosen your collar and cuffs Miss Morton,” the Grand Master informed her. “This is the fortieth time you have been punished this year so I feel compelled to warn you that I intend to beat you very soundly.”

“Yes Sir, understood Sir,” muttered Deborah gloomily as she reached up and unfastened the top button of her red silk shirt.

Deborah hung upside down over the back of the chair. The initial formalities had been completed. Her black pleated skirt had been turned back and her bumbags lowered. She knew that she would be left in this somewhat ignominious pose for sixty seconds to allow her sufficient time for rumination and personal reflection before the next phase of her punishment commenced.

Debs stared down at the cushioned seat of the straight-backed chair. It was at moments like this that she felt uncertain and somewhat bewildered. In recent months she had experienced something of a revelation. She had acknowledged the existence of her inner spankette and become aware of a masochistic tendency. However, although she had reconciled herself with this curious epiphany and embarked upon a lifestyle of recreational spanking with characteristic zeal she had considerably more difficulty reconciling herself with the notion that she had spent the past decade and a half getting herself in trouble purely to satisfy some dark desire to be punished. Debs still preferred her long-held theory that she was possessed by an intemperate alter ego, that she had semi-affectionately dubbed ‘the Imposter’.

Nonetheless, in her current unfortunate position such considerations were largely immaterial. Regardless of her motivations she once again found herself in the familiar position of being bent in half across the straight-backed chair in front of the fireplace in the Principal’s office, with her skirt neatly turned back and her bumbags lowered while she waited to be caned.

“Holy Buddha,” muttered Debs as the shaft of the cane etched a line of fire across the sweet spot of her upturned derriere. There was no mistaking the majestic quality of the stroke. It had damn near lifted her heels clear out of her shoes. She puffed out her cheeks and let her breath out in a long slow exhalation. It occurred to her that Mr Humphries fully intended to deliver on his promise when he had informed her that she was going to be beaten very soundly.

Debs did not question that she deserved to be soundly beaten. She was acutely aware that her disciplinary record during her year as a member of the Elite could, at best, be termed as less than stellar and, at worst, as borderline abysmal.

Deborah’s rank and seniority offered her immunity from the majority of the more mundane punishments that had historically contributed the highest proportion of her annual accumulation of whops.

In her role as Red-shirt she was no longer faced with the day-to-day specter of being chucked out of the assembly hall for succumbing to her acute compulsive-impulsive behavior syndrome and performing some reckless and often mindless act of anti-social agitation.

The attentions of her devoted grubby, Lady Derby Huntington, ensured that Debs would never again be put over Katie Beck’s knee to be slippered for her historic tendency towards chronic clobber abuse.

As Head of the Elite and Captain of the Red House Deborah could no longer be sent up to the library to be caned as a result of her predilection for rubbishing the pre’s, or to be beaten on routine matters of House Business. Nor did she live under the potential nightly threat of being forced to bend over the end of the bed in order that the Dorm Raider could give her a crisp six on the silks for engaging in reckless acts of goofing, gabbing, larking or pranking after the lockdown siren had sounded.

Under the circumstances for Deborah to have accumulated forty punishments during her period of tenure in the Elite was a quite astonishing achievement.

The Grand Master took his time before he pulled his arm back and delivered another line of fire across the Red-shirt’s rear end. He watched impassively as Deborah’s upper body muscles tightened and her head snapped back in agitation. Her buttocks wriggled and twitched and squirmed and she rocked up and down on the balls of her feet. He stepped back and bided his time before it was necessary to deliver the next lethal swipe.

“Holy Buddha,” mumbled Debs. “It’s only whops, it’s only whops, it’s only fucking whops!” and then her teeth started to chatter and her nerve endings began to jangle as another line of fire scorched across her naked flesh.

Extremely Hot and Very Sweaty

After a decade and a half at being on the wrong end of the corporal punishment chain Deborah Morton believed that she could take anything that they could throw at her and then some, but there was no question that the kooboo loontie rod was pushing her to the very limit of her endurance.

Debs wriggled and squirmed, she grunted and groaned and shook her head from side to side, she stamped her feet on the floor and her left leg persistently crooked backwards at the knee but nonetheless somehow she bravely managed to put it up and kept it up.

This was not Deborah’s first encounter with this extraordinarily lethal cane. A month earlier her naughty gene had been operating in overdrive and was in danger of spiraling out of control. During a particularly intense forty-eight hour period Deborah was shown an impressive eight yellow cards and on consecutive days she had compounded her ills by earning herself red cards and being ejected from the lecture rooms and dispatched to pay visits to the Grand Master’s office for punishment.

On the first of these appointments the Mr Humphries had escorted the Red-shirt down to the Brat Chamber, put her over his knee and given her bumbags a good dusting with a two-tailed leather tawse to the astonishment of twelve gaping Brats.

The following afternoon, when she somewhat shame-facedly made a second visitation, the Grand Master had introduced Deborah to the newest addition to his impressive artillery.

As was customary on such occasions the Grand Master generously shared the provenance of the new cane with Debs. Mr Humphries explained that he had been requested to participate in the prototype testing of the new product by a New-York based purveyor of such items who had a reputation for bringing the latest improvements in cane technology to the market.

Deborah was not exactly over-joyed at being selected to act as the guinea pig in this experiment, and any vague hint of academic interest she might have had evaporated the moment that he handed her the rod to experience its weight, heft and flexibility. She had swished the cane through the air and had visibly paled as she recognized its potent force.

“Holy shit,” she had muttered.

“Yes indeed Miss Morton,” the Grand Master had concurred, “now please remove your blazer and bend over the back of the chair.”

Deborah Morton had been at the wrong end of canes for the past decade and a half and was considered to be quite an expert pundit on the subject. When she described the superbly crafted rod on her respected blog as ‘absolutely the hottest new entry into the cane market for years’ the international Whops and Clobber community had sat up and taken notice.

The kooboo loontie cane was getting Deborah’s fullest attention. They were eleven strokes in and preparing for the closer. Debs reached up and rubbed her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her red blouse. She ran her fingers through her hair and momentarily rocked up and down on the balls of her feet. Finally she settled her heels back on the floor, wriggled her hips a little and then reached down and gripped the crossbar of the chair with white-knuckle determination.

The Grand Master flexed the cane between his hands while he waited for Deborah to settle in. A really good caning was a partnership and both parties needed to be fully prepared at every stage of the punishment.

“Are you ready?” Mr Humphries asked when he assessed that Debs was settled in, ready and waiting.

“Yes sir,” she grunted.

The Grand Master settled his feet, tapped the cane down gently to get his measure and then brought it back before whipping it downwards.

The fact that Deborah did not bring the house down with her howls was a tribute to her remarkable courage and her extraordinary pain threshold. The slender rod had dissected the neat tramlines that had been etched across the narrow area of her rear end known to the Woody Wags as the sweet spot. It was a perfect closer.

Debs face contorted in anguish, she threw her head back, her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth wide open as she emitted a silent howl. Her head sank back between her arms and her left foot stamped on the floor.

“No! No! No!” she panted.

The Grand Master stepped back and placed the cane on his desk. They both knew the form. He would leave Deborah bent over the chair with her throbbing arse on display for sixty seconds before covering her stripes with her bumbags and giving her the release command. After that it was up to her how long she chose to remain bent in half while she gathered herself.

Deborah pushed herself up from the chair and reached up under her skirt to straighten her bumbags and her blouse tails. She stood with her back to the Grand Master while she fastened the cuffs of her blouse and then reached up and buttoned her collar and covered the top button with the knot of her tie. Finally she retrieved the black blazer and shrugged it on. She methodically fastened the buttons before she turned around to face the Grand Master. She arched an eyebrow.

“Was that really necessary?” she enquired.