Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!Copyright 1995-2009 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
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(***, M/f, Intense, Teen slippering)
Erin fails at games. (Approximately 1,445 words. Originally published 1998-03.)
I was a nervous wreck my first week at St. Esther's. The rules were simple but there were many of them, and I was still getting used to the prefect-student relationship. I spent the week terrified that I would make that critical error and find myself nursing a sore bottom.
Early Monday morning I awoke with a burning arse and a loud slap ringing in my ears. "Are you going to get up?" said a soft voice. I turned and saw it was Ariana, my prefect, seated next to me on the bed. She was holding a large plimsole in her hand.
"Why'd you do that?" I said sullenly, rubbing my bottom as I sat up. "I'm still sore from that caning."
She shrugged and didn't answer. "Get up. You've got three more coming."
"Are you arguing with a prefect?"
"All right. Now over here. Put your hands against the wall."
I obeyed, standing with my legs slightly spread, my bottom stuck out behind me. She gave me three loud wallops--two on my left check, and one for my right. Tears sprang to my eyes, but mostly because of the surprise at getting spanked so unexpectedly and because it was humiliating getting spanked by a girl just a few years older than me.
That slippering pretty much set the tone of my day. In maths class a few hours later a girl named Monica was caned three strokes on her left hand for failing to complete her homework assignment, and at lunch three girls got into a noisy argument and Mrs. Cribble gave them each a demerit.
I was eager for games by four o'clock, ready to run off my excess energy. I met the other girls in the lockers and changed into games shorts and soccer shoes and ran out onto the field feeling excited. Silly me. I forgot that I'm terrible at games, especially under pressure.
We met on the south field and Mr. Masters, the games instructor, threw out a number of footballs and had us begin to train. We ran dribbling drills, passing drills, catching drills, all sorts of drills. By five we were hot and sweaty and exhausted. I was very nervous for I saw Mr. Masters constantly watching me, occasionally yelling at me (usually at just the wrong time so that I would be startled and mess up my kick or catch).
Mr. Masters was an instructor at St. Andrew's School for Boys across the street and down the road. He was a tall man, very military, balding slightly, and he seemed to select certain girls to pick on. As he was the only male instructor at St. Esther's he was not permitted to cane us girls, but he could slipper us--and thus he carried a large slipper with him on the field and put it to good us every chance he got.
There was a fat girl named Hannah that couldn't run very fast and when she came in last in a running exercise Mr. Masters seemed to delight in giving her a half dozen on each of her large cheeks. There was a girl named Joanna, a petite shy thing, younger than me, and completely incompetent at games. Mr. Masters slippered her at least twice that afternoon. Donna, a senior girl and very good at soccer, seemed to be on special plan with the coach--she was slippered on three occasions and for silly reasons such as failing to trap a pass properly. Strangely, she didn't seem bothered by these instances.
I began to fear for my own bottom as the afternoon wore on, and correctly it turned out. Our last exercise of the day was practicing penalty shots. Coach Masters broke us into three groups of about a dozen girls each and each group took up in front of a goal and took turns shooting and goal-tending.
I am usually fair at shooting penalties--after all, they are practically a given point in soccer. But this day must have been an off day for me, because I found I was unable to score. I was sure the coach noticed, too, because after my fourth miss he yelled at me to do better. I tried, but missed my fifth shot. It was just dumb luck--I kicked it right at Andrea, the girl goal-tending at that moment.
Immediately Mr. Masters was bearing down on me, waving that slipper. He had me bend over and gave me four swats on each cheek. They weren't that hard but I resented them. "That should encourage you," he said.
Well, it may have, but it didn't help my aim. My next two shots were off, and Mr. Masters quickly "encouraged" me some more. I was growing desperate as he threatened to let me keep shooting until my aim improved and I scored a goal. Fortunately the next girl was a lame keeper and my feeble kick went right between her legs. Everyone laughed at her and even the coach smiled and shook his head.
But soon it was my turn to tend goal. This really made me nervous. I'd never tended goal before, at least not in such a formal setting. The goal mouth was much wider than I remembered and I couldn't imagine how I was supposed to stop shots from entering.
The first three goals went right in. So did the next three, and the next. Mr. Masters came over to me and said rather smugly, "Aren't we going to stop _any_ today?" I tried very hard but though my hand touched the ball on the next one, it didn't stop it from going into the net to my left. The last shot was even worse--I picked left and it went to my right. I looked really feeble.
As new girl was about to take over the goal Mr. Masters held up his hand. "Another round," he said. "Everyone have another go. I want Miss O'Grady here to stop at least one."
My face turned crimson as he had me bend over and delivered six cracking wallops to each of my cheeks. My bottom was burning as I got back into position determined to stop a shot.
I missed. Over and over I missed. I grew worse as time went on, not better. I was unbelievable nervous. I was shaking all over. Mr. Masters' gaze completely threw me off my game. After each miss he'd come to me with the plimsole and give me six on each cheek. Soon my buttocks were really sore and I was crying a bit during the spankings. I didn't want to but I couldn't help it--it hurt far too much and I was so embarrased and the whole thing struck me as so unfair. I felt miserable and wished I was back home. "Even a caning from my father would be better than this," I thought.
But still the girls advanced and took their shots. And still I missed. Finally, the ninth girl stepped up. It was my friend Mary, and I saw her grinning at me. Her hand gestured to my right and I immediately understood her plan. She pretended to flub her kick slightly and struck it straight for me. Unfortunately I dove to the right and the ball went past me and into the net. I was crushed. Apparently she hadn't been signaling to my right at all!
After another dozen I was back in goal. Joanna, the girl Mr. Masters liked to spank, faced me. She wasn't very good at games--she lacked the confidence and drive needed. I knew I could stop her shot. After her were two older girls who played on the school soccer team and I knew there was no way I'd stop their penalties.
Joanna ran forward and kicked. This time I picked the right direction and found the ball heading right toward me. I threw my hands up wildly, and managed to deflect the ball away. It wasn't graceful, but at least I'd stopped the shot. I almost cried with relief.
"All right, all right," said Mr. Masters when everyone cheered. "Next goal-tender. Let's get this moving."
The rest of the day was uneventful, but at supper there were many whispers and glances in my direction and Mary told me that word had spread through the whole school of my adventure with the coach. Somehow I'd become admired as a hero. I didn't feel like a hero. If I was a hero, I was a hero who had to sleep on her stomach that night.
More to come next week!