Sorority Caning

It is a while since I posted a story, so here is another by PN Dedeaux. But this time it is set on a sixties college campus rather than in Victorian times.

In a cheerful room on the other side of the campus
a strange scene was taking place.
As President of Beta Beta Rho sorority, Aramilla
Ponsonby enjoyed the luxury of one of the finest
suites at Brierton. Everything about it, from its rich
leather chairs to its marbled fireplace, became the
leader of one of the most exclusive societies in the
world.
Of medium height, plump, and with a Dutchdoll
complexion, Aramilla had rather thin blonde
hair tied back, and dark dewy eyes. This tender
countenance did not bespeak a tender disposition,
however, as the figure standing in front of her well
knew.
This was the Physical Education mistress, Nancy
Kale, a mature blonde with a stunning physique. The fawn
slacks she wore huggedthe broad hips of this singularly
rumpy specimen of American womanhood like a sausage casing.
She was twenty-eight and had been a high-diving
champ in her day. Aramilla looked at her
affectionately.
‘Hello, Miss Kale’, she purred eventually. She
had on simply an ultra-short grey jersey dress, cut
like a Grecian tunic and falling in soft folds from a
belt of gold braid. She was barefoot and reeked of
elegance.
‘Come on, let’s get it over with, Aramilla.’
‘You’re right on time, aren’t you?’
‘Look. I have a half hour.’
‘That ought to be enough.’ With a lazy smile,
the lovely President gave a yawn, stretched and
flexed the biceps of her right arm thoughtfully.
‘You have come … ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing on under those slacks?’
‘No.’
‘I think I’ll just check.’
‘It isn’t necessary, Aramilla.’
But with the same cat-like smile the girl went
forward and felt the sullen cheeks, in their skintight
fabric. ‘You can see perfectly well it won’t
give any protection at all. And certainly not where
you like to hit.’
‘Gee, I believe I can feel last week’s weals. Down
there?’
But the erect woman said nothing, her chest
thrust out beneath the sweater. Aramilla’s dark
eyes flashed. She enjoyed the challenge. It was
part of her revenge, paying off the score of being
totally humiliated before Gamma Gamma Phi. At
this moment every second was infinitely sweet.
‘So you still won’t take them down for me?’
‘No.’ The proud woman’s rather square jaw came
up. ‘You won’t see me naked, Aramilla, and you
needn’t think you will.’
‘Pity. If only you were willing to bare that big
butt of yours, Miss Kale, I’d only give you six. And it
wouldn’t hurt nearly so much. Though of course. I’d
see the marks, and be able to place them there.
However’, she yawned again, ‘I can do almost as
well with the chalk. And anyway I always hit you
in the same place, don’t I?’
The stern jaw before her trembled fractionally, if
only so. ‘You might at least have the decency to
place your strokes across the … seat. About half
those you gave me last week landed on the legs, and
I couldn’t wear my usual costume taking Pool.’
Aramilla chuckled. She had heard about this. A
girl in a swimming class had reported seeing the
end of an angry weal on Miss K.’s muscular right
thigh. This was Aramilla’s brand, and Nancy’s
shame. The sororities knew who was winning this
bitter duel, all right.
Still speaking in the same formal tone the girl
went on: ‘I’m afraid the price of vanity’s gone up,
Miss Kale. In future, over clothing, it’s going to be
nine.’
‘Nine!’ A scared look crossed the grey eyes
behind the spectacles. ‘But that’s not fair. I never
…’
‘The contract was for six, right. But that was on
the skin. I can’t hurt you properly through
material.’
There was silence. The mistress’s chin fell yet
another inch. Finally she said, ‘You’re a fiend
Aramilla. I should never have agreed to this.’
‘You didn’t have much alternative, did you?’
‘You know perfectly well, that after three or four
with one of those House canes – the way you give it
– it’s sheer hell. Nine’s too much.’
‘All the same’, said Aramilla sweetly, ‘it’s
what you’re going to get. Unless you want to drop
those tight trews of yours and take it on the
altogether.’
The other shook her head. ‘I won’t give you that
satisfaction, at least.’
‘Then it’s nine of the juiciest for that bold
backside of yours. We have plenty of time and I’ll
do my best to make this a memorable experience.’
‘You won’t get a cry out of me, either.’
‘No? Pride comes before a fall, Miss Kale. I have
a feeling that you’ll be thinking differently after a
couple of good cuts with that cane. I also have an
inkling things are getting kind of tenderized back
there by now. It’s going to be less pleasant each
time.’
The mistress said nothing.
‘Go and get it. And put the chalk on.’
Behind the narrow glance from Aramilla’s icy
eyes, as the other turned to obey, lay an unusual
campus story.
In the first week of term Aramilla had entered
the hallowed precincts of Miss Kale’s empire
insouciantly tardy. In short, she had come late,
very late, for a swimming class. Nancy Kale had
judged it to be insultingly so, and had decided to
establish her authority at once. Aramilla had been
bidden to join the class in her clothes. Yes, in hat,
gloves, heels and a billowy late summer dress of
figured silk. She had been made to plunge in fullyclad,
and do several exhausting lengths. Aramilla had
crawled out and panted on all fours, hair streaming,
her best dress torn and sopping, as it adhered to her
proud body like a skin. One big breast hung quite
visible.
She went
back into the changing-room with icy face and set
teeth, resolved on revenge.
This had come much sooner than expected, and
more easily. A campus spy in the stables had
informed her that Nancy Kale received the head
groom, sinewy Mr. Jorrocks, in her rooms each
Saturday night. Janet Richey, the fotog expert of
the house, had strobed the enthusiastic couple in
action that very week, through a transom. The
result had been a picture that would not simply put
‘Paid’ to Miss Kale at Brierton, but would ruin her
career for good in any college in America. Stretched
on her back across the bed, her face in ecstatic bliss,
she had been preserved for posterity with about
nine inches of muscular Derbyshire gristle up her
guts. So Aramilla had very sweetly put it to her,
promising to act upon it and show it to the college
President himself, unless the mistress agreed
instantly to her terms. Which were?
As a punishment for her foolishly degrading
treatment of the President of the most exclusive
girls’ club in the world, Miss Kale would report to
her weekly at a set time for the rest of the term
(Aramilla’s last), and receive a sound caning. Six
strokes across the bottom, to be exact. Nancy Kale
was afraid of that picture, and was assured that
she would receive it, and its negative, at the end of
term, after this absurd penance had been completed.
What’s more, she enjoyed Phys. Ed. and wanted to
continue in it. She had heard of the sorority
hazings, but had not witnessed them. She was a
strong, muscular woman in prime condition. Six
strokes with a cane did not seem so awful. In short,
after a lengthy and acrimonious debate, she had
accepted. The two had shaken hands, agreeing on a
regular hour. Whenever she met her on the campus,
Aramilla treated the mistress with the utmost
respect. But her colleagues in the House used to say,
as the two crossed, ‘And thereby hangs a … tail.’
Nancy Kale had now been three times, for
Aramilla’s revenge, and each time had fallen just a
little more in the sweet-faced girl’s spell. Each
time Aramilla had been able to push a step further
forward in the other’s total chastisement and
humiliation. From the first the girl had insisted on
the beating being administered on the bare skin and
each time the other had refused, taking a scorching
eight instead over a whisper-thin girdle the first
time, and skin-tight slacks the second and third. By
now she had had two dozen full-blooded strokes
across her bottoms and had developed a thorough
dread of the sorority stick, which could punish
through and through. And the last time Aramilla
had begun to punish her spirit as well as her flesh.
She stood now chalking the end of the long, pliable
cane so that her tormentor could see the place each
stripe had fallen, and aim accordingly. It was one
of the refinements she found strangely disconcerting
and demoralizing. But she summoned all her
courage not to give her junior the satisfaction she
weekly sought.
‘The same position?’
‘Yes’, said Aramilla cheerily, facing the mirror.
‘I want to be able to see your expression and I want
you to see it, too.’
Humming to herself, the girl had locked the
door, drawn the curtains, and arranged a standard
lamp. Then she had fetched a big sponge, heavy
with water. When she came back the woman had
cleared the room behind her, put out the cane and
was standing in front of a long mirror to one side of
the fireplace. Aramilla stood just behind her. To
think of the impending storm hanging over that
thrusting rump, why, it had become the breath of
her being.
‘Those slacks are man-tailored, aren’t they?’ she
asked casually. Receiving no answer she went on,
‘Part of a pants suit?’
‘Yes if you must know. Now let’s get on with it.’
‘You don’t forget a trick, do you?’
‘We do our best. There. Even our pledges don’t get
their pants any tighter than that.’ Her fingers felt
the fibrous material,
beneath which the buttocks seemed swollen,
clumsy, hot with apprehension. They were like her
valuable property now and she stroked them with
care, finally yanking up the waistband so that the
woman winced. ‘Now all you need is a stiff upper
lip.’
She held out a short elasticized thong, of the
type used to secure luggage on the racks of autos, and
Miss Kale secured it around her powerful thighs,
just beneath her bottom. It drew the material
perfectly tight. But Aramilla was not quite
satisfied, tugging it well down the thighs.
‘Oh no you don’t. That’s where I like to hit.’ She
took up the cane. At once she felt intensely excited.
Its stinging skill was apparent in the active way it
vibrated in her hand. ‘I’m going to make you
remember the way you tried to disgrace me publicly
all your life. Right here.’ She tapped the
protuberant behind at its tightest spot.
‘If you’re going to whip me, do so’, said the
other, and to Aramilla’s delight there was the
faintest tinge of a whimper in her tone. The
athletic woman leaned forward in front of the
mirror at an angle, placing her hands behind her
head and interlacing her fingers there. Aramilla
had proposed this position the first time and found
it excellent, somehow making the senior lady look
strangely silly, her eyes staring at herself in the
mirror, her thighs clipped together by a strap, the
slacks perfectly snug over the broadened beam
presented. Aramilla gave an unnecessary tug here
and there and stood well back.
‘Can I have something to bite on?’ asked the
mistress.
‘No.’ But this was good. It was another reduction,
and she noticed how the other gritted her teeth
together, in the glass. ‘Keep your eyes open
throughout. I want you to see your expression all the
time.’
Padding barefoot, Aramilla took about three
paces and bent her knees for the final swing. The
yellow snake thrashed elastically across the firm,
well-rounded cheeks. Nancy Kale gave a jerk, but
that was all. In the mirror her face frowned in
concentration. Aramilla stood back and took stock of
the thin white line she had drawn across the fawn
seat.
For maximum effect, she knew, it was imperative
to lay and place these first cuts properly. Above
all, to time them right, hitting just at the peak
caused some seconds later by the previous stroke,
and then cutting again after that – until the
mounting smart seemed intolerable to the sufferer,
finally alarming.
Two more bit crisply in across the lower buttocks
and she was gratified, after a second, to see the
body jerk, the rounds cringe in. This was most
promising. The woman’s breath was coming
stertoriously. She decided to drive home her
advantage verbally, though, in fact, the other had
corrected her position immediately.
‘Come on, arch your back and stick it out. I’ve
only given you three. You have exactly six more to
come.’
Pfffuitt!
She felt the full force of the fourth travel
through her arm as it met the rubbery flesh. Nancy
Kale gasped at once, her hands leaving her neck
and rubbing together frantically a second before she
recovered herself and put them back.
‘What!’ scoffed Aramilla. ‘Is the ickle girl going
to cry?’‘You don’t have to taunt me. Just get on with the
beating.’
‘You haven’t had half yet.’
‘Cane me.’ Then came a word Aramilla had been
longing for since the first moment she had started
this rigorous training – ‘Please.’
Together with the sight of the squirming
buttocks it affected her so deeply she hissed aloud
and one hand went under her skirt to rub vigorously
there a moment, until she checked it. Christ! If she
wasn’t careful she’d come in a moment, spoil it all.
‘It hurts all the more if you clench’, she called.
‘I can’t help it. That cane stings.’
Aramilla chuckled. The long rod rippled in her
hand again, its tip flicking expertly under the
bulbous right cheek, the lithe wood eating into the drumtight
stuff there.
‘God! You don’t have to hit me down there.’
Six … seven! Suddenly as she turned for her run
after the seventh a throb of joy flickered through
Aramilla’s well-cushioned chest. The game games
mistress had taken the full swing across her meaty
bottom stoically, as before. But now she was
standing miserably clasping her posteriors, and
looking round at Aramilla pleadingly … just like
any pledge! It was too good to be true.
‘Get into position right away. You have two
more.’
‘You don’t know how that cane hurts, Aramilla.
Give me a minute’s rest, at least.’
‘I know perfectly well, thank you, Miss Kale.
What I didn’t know was that you were a cowardycat.’
The grey eyes flared. ‘I’ve still got the bruises
from last time, dammit. If you’d hit me higher I
could take it. Nobody could be expected …’
‘Get bent. And quickly.’
This was much better than she’d expected. The
big mistress moved gratifyingly slowly, hobbled by
the thong. Each of the final two cuts extracted a sob
that caused a leap in Aramilla’s insides, and when
it was over the struggle to undo the strap caused the
woman to drop to her knees, rubbing herself
intermittently behind as if some viper had stung
her there. Watching her, Aramilla found herself
panting again, frigging herself fast. With a terrific
effort she forced herself to say calmly, ‘For getting
up during correction you have extra.’
The mistress turned a pain-filled face back and –
yes – it was smeared with tears.

‘Even you couldn’t be that cruel, Aramilla.’
‘It’s a House rule.’
‘You’ve given me nine. It’s enough. She had
struggled off the thong and now tossed it dejectedly
aside. Her back was bent; she was a picture of pain.
‘If you knew how much it’s still hurting now, you’d
know you don’t need to give me any more.’
‘It’s two for getting up’, said Aramilla in the
same controlled, but relentless tone. ‘Four over
clothing.’
A sob racked the body kneeling before her.
Suddenly, in despairing decision, the woman
started fumbling at the side of her slacks. This was
superb; she was crying in earnest now.
‘All right, you win.’ Tearing them down she bent
forward on all fours. ‘Do your damnedest to them, go
on.’
Aramilla’s dark eyes glowed like an animal’s.
She was unspeakably excited. The whole room
seemed filled with her triumph, the buttocks in
front of her vast, luridly wealed, somehow
medieval in appearance. The nine strokes had
bruised them savagely on the right.
For a second she toyed with the idea … the
pledge position, kneeling on her hands … then she
changed her mind.
‘That’s much better, Miss Kale. It was extremely
silly of you not to see reason sooner. But for these
last two I want you standing up facing the mirror, if
you please. You can kneel down for the worm kiss,
after.’
With a sick moan the woman did as bid.
‘Hands above your head and relax your bottom
completely.’
The mons was prominent, full of hair, and
standing where she was, Aramilla could see how
thick in profile the hips now were. She lashed up
quickly at their bluish contusions below. Nancy
Kale gasped. The girl let her stay that way for
some time; the older woman looked ridiculous, even
trivial, with her expression of tense anticipation,
and her slacks in miserable wrinkles round her
ankles. Moreover, her superb seat-cheeks seemed to
quiver involuntarily, despite herself, at the idea of
another blow.
‘Get it over with, Aramilla.’
‘Ask nicely, and I might.’ She turned the screw
with expert fingers.
After a second the word was said, ‘Please.’
With all her strength the girl smacked the
whippy stick around the full width of the hips in
front of her. The woman’s head went back, she
grabbed her cubs, fingers digging into the scored
flesh there, and gradually she sank again to her
knees.
Surging with queenly pleasure, Aramilla moved.
She stood with her back to the twisted, tearstricken
face and placed her legs comfortably
astride.
‘Now’, she said, ‘this time I want a good one. Get
your tongue right up and keep it there.’
‘Please, Aramilla. It’s so disgusting.’
‘I promised myself to teach you a lesson you’ll
never forget and I mean to do so. Come on, hurry up.’
The mistress approached her face. Her broad
forehead raised the tail of the grey jersey skirt
behind and with the expression of a child
approaching a pint of castor oil she pressed her face
near to the tender curves above.
‘Keep your hands at your back, mind.’
Once started, there was no stopping. Aramilla
stirred at the first snakelike thrust. With one hand
she fingered herself lushly in front.
‘What’s wrong now?’
‘I can’t. It’s utterly impossible. It’s … far too
tight.’
‘Here, let me help. Like that. Now go on. Don’t
shirk. Yes that’s better. Yes. Yes. Yes. Right up, and
k-k-k … hell!’
When she came back from the bathroom the
older woman was dressed, made up, and standing
impersonally by the door.
‘Once again you were merciless, Aramilla’, she
said evenly. ‘I have to hand it to you. You know
how to dish it out. I wonder if you can take it, too?’
‘That’s not a question that need occupy you, Miss
Kale.’
‘Next week I have the curse.’
‘Too bad. You’ll have to take double the week
after. Our sorority sisters take twice nine.
Alternatively, you can come and try your hand
again. I promise not to touch the Tampax tails.’
The woman turned without a word. In the
curtained room (‘The Room!’ for her) Aramilla
watched her walk stiffly across the campus, her
bottom tight and slightly marked with white.
The worm kiss now, she thought, love kiss later.