A Costly Miscalculation - The Reluctant Prefect...

Here's the next installment! It does contain strong language so be warned...

The Reluctant Prefect

Myra was not overly enamoured with the prospect of enduring yet another P.E. lesson; especially with her bottom being in the state it was. She limped awkwardly and her peers looked on and whispered knowingly as she entered the changing rooms. Elizabeth greeted her warmly, but reproached her for her foolishness.

“See?” she said, in a Mother-knows-best kind of way; “this is what happens when one gets too big for one’s boots!” Elizabeth was now a Senior Prefect as she was sixteen years of age. This privilege was accompanied by a shiny red shield shaped metal badge, limited spanking rights and in the case of Liz, the tendency to cluck and scold like a mother hen.

“Aw, Liz! Could you give it a rest? Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough?” Elizabeth softened slightly; “you are certainly limping quite badly. Mr. Tennant must have been very cross with you!”

“He was,” confirmed Myra; “but it wasn’t him that totally crucified my backside. Mr. Birch saw to that!” All the other girls that were listening in gasped in shock. Mr Birch’s brutality was legendary. In the blink of an eye, feelings of sympathy immediately replaced any previous animosity towards Myra.

“It’s fuckin’ bullshit, that is.” Elizabeth spun round to be greeted by the sight of Chelsea Fowkes. She was buxom girl, with long peroxide blonde hair, fake tan and fake nails. Like Myra, she was also transplanted from a failing inner-city school in the hope that her grades would improve as well as benefiting from some old fashioned discipline. She was deemed to be a problem child, and had been previously expelled from no less than five other schools for fighting, vandalism and being generally insolent and disruptive. Chelsea was what one would call a “chav,” but she had a heart of gold, as well as a mouth like a sewer.

“Chelsea! What have I told you about your language?” Elizabeth jumped straight into prefect mode. “Yeah, ok, sorry Liz, but it ain’t right!”

“What ain’t? Isn’t!” Elizabeth corrected herself.

“Pervy headmasters an’ that, beating fuck out of us! And they get off on it! Especially Birchy! Apparently, he keeps one hand in his pocket whilst he’s canin’ some poor sod. I wonder what he’s doing there, then eh? Dirty bastard!” Chelsea was not one for shying away from expressing her opinions. It frequently landed her in very hot water, but it never deterred her from fighting what she perceived to be a fascist and oppressive regime.

“Chelsea! Shh!” Myra implored. “Some teacher or snotty-nosed prefect; (no offence, Liz), will have you!” Elizabeth shot Myra a withering look, but said nothing.

“I ain’t gonna be grassed up by no prefect!” Her volume increased alarmingly as her blood pressure rose. “I’ll fuckin’ bang ‘em out!”

“Chelsea, I appreciate your concerns, but any more foul language out of you, I’ll have no choice but to…” Liz trailed off as an increasingly agitated Chelsea interrupted her.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah; whatever. Just chill out, will ya?”

“That’s it! I’ve had enough! Take your right plimsoll off!” Liz had given Chelsea enough chances; probably more than what she should have done. The two girls were friends, despite their very different backgrounds. After all, Elizabeth had learned in the First Form, not to look down on others.

Chelsea’s family could only be described as dysfunctional. Her father left when she was three years of age. Her mother was abusive and an alcoholic and she had two brothers and a sister, all by different fathers. It was little wonder that Chelsea was the way she was; angry, frustrated and with no means to express herself, other than in foul mouthed rants like this.

“What? Jog on mate. You ain’t hittin’ me!”

“Would you rather I referred you to Mr. Tennant, or “Pervy Birchy?” They’ll both cane you; Mr. Birch will be particularly severe! I can guarantee that!”

“You wouldn’t!” she exclaimed, suddenly aware of the trouble she was in; “I thought we were mates!”

Myra, upon hearing this exchange, decided it was time to prove a point. She spun round and dropped her knickers, affording the assembled throng (who all could not resist watching a prefect in action) a front seat view of her desecrated derriere. They all gasped in surprise and alarm.

“What the fuck…?” Even Chelsea was shocked.

“So, Chelsea, you would rather give Mr Birch the chance to do this to you?” Myra exclaimed to her foolish friend, “Or would you rather have a couple of swats with a plimsoll? You’ll get a red bum at most, and it’ll sting a little. You won’t be practically crippled like me! So do as you’re told for God’s sake and stop your whinging!”

Chelsea cast her eye over the other girls who were all gathering to witness her imminent slippering; they were all joining in with choruses of “yeah, Chelsea, don’t be such a wuss!” and “yeah! Put your money where your mouth is!”

“Ok, yeah; fine!” She kicked off the shoe, thrust it in Liz’s face and then folded her arms defiantly.

“I’m glad you’re beginning to see reason, Chelsea;” Elizabeth was very matter-of-fact and businesslike when she was in full flow. “It’s nothing personal, but you’ve brought this on yourself. If I’m seen to be negligent is my prefecture duties, it’s the dragon for me; and as you’ve said, we are supposed to be friends. Would me being punished because of your galloping stupidity rest easy on your conscience? Knowing that my backside would be as sore as Myra’s, just because you cannot seem to keep your bad language under control? Well?” She paused dramatically. “Where’s your big mouth now? You’ve usually got plenty to say for yourself!”

Chelsea shuffled uncomfortably and clutched her arms about her. She found that, despite herself, that she could not look her friend in the eye. She knew she was in the wrong, but her pride was, at this moment in time, too big to swallow. Although her fire had been dampened somewhat, embers of defiance still smouldered away.

“You don’t need to lecture me. I get your point,” she muttered.

Elizabeth smiled; a degree of affection was indeed very evident. Secretly, she loved her spirit and the fact that she expressed so colourfully what everyone one thought, when no one would even dare whisper half the things Chelsea raged about. Unfortunately, she had obligations to fulfil, which involved helping to nip such insubordination in the bud. Plus, she disliked profanity and visibly winced at the most mildest of swearwords.

“Come on, Chelsea. Let’s get it over with.” Liz nodded to the communal wooden changing room bench, which all the girls shared. Numerous clothes hooks hung above them. It was akin to a typical primary school cloakroom. The other girls shimmied along to make room for this humiliating spectacle.

Elizabeth did not even have to say what was required for her unfortunate charge to do. Chelsea faced the bench, spread her legs three feet apart and bent double, her elbows resting on her folded up uniform.

The P.E. kit of Saint Claire’s also possessed a perverse kinkiness. The kilt like wrap around skirts were obscenely short as the mildest gust of wind afforded anyone in the vicinity a glimpse of gusset. A bottle green polo shirt, short white ankle socks, P.E. knickers of the same shade of green and black lace-up plimsolls completed this ensemble, and Chelsea was about to be spanked by her own footwear, in front of her peers.

“You can keep your pants on, but you’re going to get six,” she remarked, half-apologetically.

“Please, mate…” Chelsea pleaded, “Just get on with it.” Her tone was still spirited, but was markedly more respectful now.

“As you wish, my friend,” Elizabeth replied with a sigh, as she flexed the plimsoll in her hands. She placed her left hand in the small of Chelsea’s back and tapped lightly the top of her thighs; it was the point where her knickers afforded her no protection at all.

WHAP! Elizabeth brought the plimsoll down with full force and the assembled spectators jumped and winced. Chelsea did not possess Liz’s stoicism; her cries were full of inhibited anguish.

“Arghh! Jesus Christ!”

“Blasphemy counts as bad language too, Chelsea,” Elizabeth remarked, simply. “Don’t force me to give you extra.”

“Please mate, don’t be like this!”

“I’m sorry babe, you know I’ve got no choice. I cannot afford to be accused of favouritism.”

Solemnly, she lined up her next shot. She decided to be kind and strike the meatiest part of the buttocks, slap bang in the centre of Chelsea’s behind. There was plenty of flesh to absorb the impact. WHAP! The footwear landed with a resounding slap and her unfortunate charge’s torso jolted forward. “Owwww!!” came a voice from the now humbled Chelsea. Her eyes were now wet with tears. Elizabeth also felt a lump in her throat. She wished her friend would do more to watch her p’s and q’s. She hated having to discipline her peers like this. Often, just a look or a stern word was enough to deter any schoolmate that was teetering on the bridge of recalcitrance. Chelsea, on the other hand, never knew when to quit. She needed to be taught a lesson. With this resolve, she continued her assault. WHAP!! Chelsea’s composure had totally vanished and her bravado had utterly evaporated. The changing room rang with her sobs, and cries of “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

I’m sorry too, thought Elizabeth as she forced herself to strike her friend again. She wanted to relent, but with so many eyes watching, she could not afford to display any sign of mercy.

WHAP!! Chelsea’s cringing castigated cheeks bore the brunt of Elizabeth’s brand of discipline again. The gathered throng looked on with a mixture of horror, fascination and mild amusement as this self-confessed “gobby cow” was brought down more than just a peg or two.
Myra, who was amongst the spectators, hoped that she would never have to be disciplined by her best friend like this. She thought of the old line that teachers and headmasters always used to feed errant students before they were punished in a physical way: “this will hurt me more than it will hurt you.” In this case, this phrase was very apt; as it was very evident to her that Elizabeth was suffering immensely.

“Only two more to go, Chelsea, and they will hurt. Brace yourself.”

“And the other four didn’t?” Chelsea squeaked indignantly. Elizabeth chose not to address Chelsea’s insolent reply, instead opting to let her actions do the talking. WHAP!!! How Chelsea howled! Hardly surprising really, as Elizabeth aimed her strikes where it hurt the most, at the point where bottom meets thigh.

“Please! Please, Liz! No more!” Chelsea was overcome with regret and her shoulders shook violently with the grief that was now consuming her. Elizabeth also felt that her voice was about to crack and she tapped the top of the opposite leg that she had struck, not ten seconds ago.

“One more babe,” she whispered so that the other girls would not hear. “Be brave for me.” Elizabeth nodded and replied in an equally hushed tone: “Finish it, please….”

Finish it she did. Taking a whole step back, she lined up her final assault. With gritted teeth she brought the plimsoll full force across Chelsea’s castigated cheeks. How she howled! Her body grew limp and she was panting and sobbing, totally unable to articulate a sentence or utter a word.

“I’m sorry I had to do that, Chelsea. I trust you will never give me reason to chastise you like that again.” All Chelsea could do was shake her head. Dishevelled, distressed and with mascara running down her cheeks, she straightened herself up and humbly retrieved her footwear without saying a word or meeting Elizabeth’s gaze. Liz nodded curtly, patted her affectionately on the top of her left arm and signalled to Myra that they had better make their way into the gymnasium. After witnessing Liz’s performance, Myra thought better of challenging her, so she dutifully complied.

This was going to be a very interesting afternoon…