anarchistic_masochist
11-07-2010, 10:53 PM
Due to popular-ish demand, here's the next part. It's a flashback sequence designed to introduce a new character; and yes, there is a CP scene.... :)
Elizabeth Hayworth was Myra’s best friend. This had not always been the case; Myra had initially disliked her with a vengeance, as she could, on occasion, give the impression of being rather stuck-up. Her father was an accountant and her mother was a solicitor, so she never had to want for anything, except perhaps, for her parents to pay her some attention once in a while.
“Your family may be rich, but money can’t buy you love!” Myra used to sneer, back when she was a First Year student. “That’s why rich kids get packed off to boarding school, because Mummy and Daddy are too busy trying to keep up with the Jones’, surrounding themselves with expensive crap that they don’t even need!” Myra was a fervent Marxist, even at eleven years of age and as such, had a very dim view of the middle class. To her, they were decadent, degenerate and rotten to the core, with no idea of what it was like to live in the real world. Compare and contrast that to Myra’s upbringing; being the fourth of five children; having to endure the humiliation of wearing hand-me-downs; parents struggling to make ends meet. One could certainly understand her rage and resentment.
“They ain’t got time to give you any love or affection! You just get under their feet!”
This unkind statement, along with many others, was as a result of what Myra perceived to be an elitist attitude. One thing she could not stand was the middle-classes looking down their noses at her, and she detested Elizabeth for that very reason; Elizabeth had called her a “common, ignorant peasant” in History, and Myra had sworn revenge. “Just because you’ve got a bit of cash, doesn’t mean you’re any better than me!” she used to scream. She even came to blows, and she did not fight like a girl either! No slapping and pulled pigtails here! Oh no, these were proper punches that any seasoned pugilist would have been proud of. These blows were designed to smash Elizabeth’s toffee nose three foot wide across her porcelain face.
The inevitable happened and they were both brought before the Deputy Head. (Mr. Birch was off sick, luckily.) As Elizabeth was a model student, well spoken and was never in any trouble, she had got away Scot-free, which of course, seemed to substantiate Myra’s Marxist viewpoint. Myra, on the other hand, was at that time, one of the “rag-a-muffin” kids dragged in from a failing inner-city schools; one of many of the pleb guinea pigs in this Tory sociological experiment. It also did not help Myra’s case that she had carried with her, a history and a reputation for fighting, disruptiveness and impudence. Now, as a Fifth-Former, she had achieved much to change that image!
Elizabeth was allowed a front-row seat in Myra’s Theatre of Pain, as she was ordered to bend over the Deputy’s desk with her knickers at half-mast. Myra’s nemesis watched spellbound as the time-honoured ritual was performed: the dressing down; the hand-on-head; the humiliation of being made to bare yourself for Six of the Best of the junior cane, the standard implement of correction for girls under the age of fourteen. She shivered and felt oddly excited as she heard every cry, every whimper and every stroke. Myra had momentarily turned her head, between her agonised cries, to face Elizabeth, eyes shooting poison-tipped daggers into her soul. Elizabeth had then suddenly felt a sense of remorse as she stared at the pale blue Junior Prefect’s badge that clung to the lapel of her blazer. She was in a position of trust and responsibility and should not have stooped to Myra’s level. As a Prefect, she was expected to take control of situations like that and reported her to a member of staff. (Junior Prefects did not have the spanking privileges of the senior ones.)
In reality, Myra would never have given her the opportunity to let a “toff” grass her up. Over her dead body! In a way, being caned by the Deputy Head was infinitely preferable to giving Elizabeth the moral upper hand! Then, something happened that changed her opinion of Elizabeth forever.
The sixth stroke had landed, with the predictable response. Myra was teary-eyed, but was too angry to cry. At the Deputy Head’s command, she was made to stand in the corner of the office with her hands on her head, nose touching the wall; still with her red stripy bottom on display of course. She then heard the voice of her enemy.
“Excuse me, Sir,” she began, and the Deputy turned to face her. “What is it, Hayworth?” came the abrupt reply. “I’m not exactly innocent in this whole sorry affair; I’m just as bad as Myra. I actually provoked her.” Myra, from her position, could not believe what she was hearing, and nor could the Deputy Head. “Is this true, Longford?” he barked. Still facing the wall, Myra cleverly replied: “Well, Elizabeth is not a liar, Sir.” Well, she wasn’t; Myra gave Elizabeth her due. “In that case, Longford, you may turn to face me!” She did so, hands still planted on her head. “You can take your hands down too.” Myra shook her aching limbs in relief. Five seconds ago, she would have loved to have been witness to Elizabeth’s downfall; now she was literally a captive, helpless and reluctant spectator.
“Hayworth, come here!” The Deputy Head was ex-military and was, as such, in the habit of shouting a lot. Elizabeth stepped forward, ashen faced, shaking and sweating. Myra realised that Elizabeth had not been caned before. All at once, she suddenly had a newfound admiration for the girl, for being so brave and so honourable. Her heart bled.
“You do realise that Prefects, even junior ones, are dealt with twice as severely as anyone else, don’t you?” Elizabeth met his gaze as best she could and answered, with voice quavering slightly, but still managing to display magnificent stoicism: “Yes Sir, I do.”
“This may appear grossly unfair to you, but are you aware of why this is the case?”
“Because, we’re supposed to know better, Sir.” A textbook reply that was delivered, totally devoid of all emotion.
“Correct. Therefore Miss Hayworth, you are to receive a total of twelve strokes.”
Elizabeth nodded grimly. “So be it,” she said with finality, more to herself, than as a comment aimed directly at the Deputy Head. The young Myra could not help but admire her dignity. She watched wide-eyed and open mouthed as Elizabeth draped herself over the Deputy’s desk in the way that she had done, not five minutes before. The pain of her still stinging cheeks faded into the background, as the unfortunate prefect shuffled into position while the Deputy flexed his cane. Elizabeth buried her face from sight; Myra knew that she must have been terrified and she also suspected that Elizabeth would be reluctant to give her punisher the satisfaction of crying out in anguish. Elizabeth was also of the philosophy that to cry in front of others was a sign of weakness. No, she would not allow herself to make her distress obvious. The Hayworths were made of strong stuff.
The first stroke landed and Elizabeth jolted forward, hissing through her teeth. The Deputy frowned and lined up the next shot. The cane whistled and burned another line of fire across her once spank-virgin cheeks. Elizabeth shook slightly from side to side, as she tried to assimilate this unbearable pain, without giving her punisher sadistic fulfilment. Her breathing was laboured, but her head remained buried out of sight. Her shoulders had, however began to quake. Was she crying? Myra could not tell. The Deputy was efficient and merciless and would not have paid even the loudest and most anguished cries any heed. The sixth stroke landed with a resounding crack and Elizabeth’s torso jolted; Myra momentarily saw her face screwed up in agony as she bit her lip and hissed with the pain, such was her determination not to give the Deputy any satisfaction. Mr Banner (for that was his name) paused momentarily, and threw down his cane.
“Defiant little madam, aren’t you?” he said, with a note of admiration in his voice. Elizabeth did not answer, but remained prostrate over the desk, panting and sweating. “Let’s see if you’re so bold after this!”
He walked to a cabinet in the corner of the room and retrieved a senior cane. Myra gasped in shock. Elizabeth craned her neck around to catch a glimpse of what was to strip her of her heroic façade. Her eyes saucered, but her overall expression remained the same. As the Deputy Head lined up his next stroke, Elizabeth faced the front, shuffled into the required position and braced herself. Crack!! The first of the second batch landed with pinpoint accuracy; yet another angry wheal swam to the surface of her once pristine posterior. There was no suppression this time; a pitiful yelp was heard from the morass of golden curls that fanned out across the surface of Mr Banner’s desk, her head buried into her left arm as her right clutched the furthest edge of the table. Again the cane fell, this time across the gluteal crease. Her head tilted back to give way to a tortured wail. The mask had slipped and her soul was laid bare as the third senior stroke impacted her tender flesh in the same place. Tears began to fall and her shoulders shook uncontrollably. Myra stood aghast, silently grateful that she was let off so lightly. She made a promise to herself that she would not taunt Elizabeth again, and felt sick with guilt. Poor girl! She thought. Mr Banner did not relent; Myra saw a slightly demented gleam in his eye and his lip curled in silent sadistic satisfaction and he let rip a stinging stroke across the back of Elizabeth’s thighs. Her screams could have frightened the birds out of the trees and she involuntarily kicked out her legs. The eleven-year-old Myra clamped her hands to her ears and started to cry. Why did she have to witness such brutality? The last two were aimed squarely at the gluteal crease, a particularly sensitive area of the bottom where a stroke or two of the cane is acutely penetrating. Elizabeth was a mental and physical wreck. Her hair was dishevelled; her face was red and tear-streaked and her clothes were creased. Both Myra and Elizabeth were dismissed and when they were out of that infernal office and into the relative sanctuary of the corridor, Myra threw her arms around Elizabeth and comforted her.
“Why the hell did you willingly put yourself through that?” Myra exclaimed as Elizabeth sobbed into her shoulder. “You could have got away with that. You didn’t need to say anything.”
Elizabeth looked up at her; “what, and prove to you that I’m part of a privileged elite that constantly gets away with murder? Any sort of power comes with responsibility; I’ve always been taught that. I know it’s only a bloody Junior Prefect badge and it’s more trouble than it’s worth if I’m being perfectly honest, but when you mess up, you have to take the flak for it.”
“I’m so sorry Liz for taunting you the way that I did. I’m responsible for that horrendous beating you’ve just had…”
Liz interrupted her. “Myra, it’s fine. I gave you good reason for you to hate me. I must have come across as a total snob.”
“Well, I certainly have every reason not to hate you now.” Myra took her hand and guided her to the girls’ toilets. “Let me do something to make it up to you.”
Hand in hand, they made their way to the loos; Myra took several paper towels out of the dispenser and soaked them in cold water. Liz once again lowered her knickers as Myra dabbed delicately at the livid wheals that criss-crossed her backside. Liz again showed typical stoicism as she tried to play down the agony that she was in.
“You don’t need to be brave in front of me any more,” Myra remarked. Friends can cry and expose themselves to each other…”
“I beg your pardon?!” came the indignant response.
“No, no! I mean, expose yourself emotionally – confide in each other. Tell each other secrets.”
“And bathe each others’ bottoms!” Liz laughed bitterly.
“Aye, I have the distinct feeling that we’re going to be doing a lot more bum bathing before we leave school!” The two ex-enemies laughed together and forged an unbreakable bond that would endure from that day forth. The present-day Myra reflected upon this strangled birth of a friendship as she left Mr. Tennant’s office and made her way to her next lesson: Phys. Ed.
Elizabeth Hayworth was Myra’s best friend. This had not always been the case; Myra had initially disliked her with a vengeance, as she could, on occasion, give the impression of being rather stuck-up. Her father was an accountant and her mother was a solicitor, so she never had to want for anything, except perhaps, for her parents to pay her some attention once in a while.
“Your family may be rich, but money can’t buy you love!” Myra used to sneer, back when she was a First Year student. “That’s why rich kids get packed off to boarding school, because Mummy and Daddy are too busy trying to keep up with the Jones’, surrounding themselves with expensive crap that they don’t even need!” Myra was a fervent Marxist, even at eleven years of age and as such, had a very dim view of the middle class. To her, they were decadent, degenerate and rotten to the core, with no idea of what it was like to live in the real world. Compare and contrast that to Myra’s upbringing; being the fourth of five children; having to endure the humiliation of wearing hand-me-downs; parents struggling to make ends meet. One could certainly understand her rage and resentment.
“They ain’t got time to give you any love or affection! You just get under their feet!”
This unkind statement, along with many others, was as a result of what Myra perceived to be an elitist attitude. One thing she could not stand was the middle-classes looking down their noses at her, and she detested Elizabeth for that very reason; Elizabeth had called her a “common, ignorant peasant” in History, and Myra had sworn revenge. “Just because you’ve got a bit of cash, doesn’t mean you’re any better than me!” she used to scream. She even came to blows, and she did not fight like a girl either! No slapping and pulled pigtails here! Oh no, these were proper punches that any seasoned pugilist would have been proud of. These blows were designed to smash Elizabeth’s toffee nose three foot wide across her porcelain face.
The inevitable happened and they were both brought before the Deputy Head. (Mr. Birch was off sick, luckily.) As Elizabeth was a model student, well spoken and was never in any trouble, she had got away Scot-free, which of course, seemed to substantiate Myra’s Marxist viewpoint. Myra, on the other hand, was at that time, one of the “rag-a-muffin” kids dragged in from a failing inner-city schools; one of many of the pleb guinea pigs in this Tory sociological experiment. It also did not help Myra’s case that she had carried with her, a history and a reputation for fighting, disruptiveness and impudence. Now, as a Fifth-Former, she had achieved much to change that image!
Elizabeth was allowed a front-row seat in Myra’s Theatre of Pain, as she was ordered to bend over the Deputy’s desk with her knickers at half-mast. Myra’s nemesis watched spellbound as the time-honoured ritual was performed: the dressing down; the hand-on-head; the humiliation of being made to bare yourself for Six of the Best of the junior cane, the standard implement of correction for girls under the age of fourteen. She shivered and felt oddly excited as she heard every cry, every whimper and every stroke. Myra had momentarily turned her head, between her agonised cries, to face Elizabeth, eyes shooting poison-tipped daggers into her soul. Elizabeth had then suddenly felt a sense of remorse as she stared at the pale blue Junior Prefect’s badge that clung to the lapel of her blazer. She was in a position of trust and responsibility and should not have stooped to Myra’s level. As a Prefect, she was expected to take control of situations like that and reported her to a member of staff. (Junior Prefects did not have the spanking privileges of the senior ones.)
In reality, Myra would never have given her the opportunity to let a “toff” grass her up. Over her dead body! In a way, being caned by the Deputy Head was infinitely preferable to giving Elizabeth the moral upper hand! Then, something happened that changed her opinion of Elizabeth forever.
The sixth stroke had landed, with the predictable response. Myra was teary-eyed, but was too angry to cry. At the Deputy Head’s command, she was made to stand in the corner of the office with her hands on her head, nose touching the wall; still with her red stripy bottom on display of course. She then heard the voice of her enemy.
“Excuse me, Sir,” she began, and the Deputy turned to face her. “What is it, Hayworth?” came the abrupt reply. “I’m not exactly innocent in this whole sorry affair; I’m just as bad as Myra. I actually provoked her.” Myra, from her position, could not believe what she was hearing, and nor could the Deputy Head. “Is this true, Longford?” he barked. Still facing the wall, Myra cleverly replied: “Well, Elizabeth is not a liar, Sir.” Well, she wasn’t; Myra gave Elizabeth her due. “In that case, Longford, you may turn to face me!” She did so, hands still planted on her head. “You can take your hands down too.” Myra shook her aching limbs in relief. Five seconds ago, she would have loved to have been witness to Elizabeth’s downfall; now she was literally a captive, helpless and reluctant spectator.
“Hayworth, come here!” The Deputy Head was ex-military and was, as such, in the habit of shouting a lot. Elizabeth stepped forward, ashen faced, shaking and sweating. Myra realised that Elizabeth had not been caned before. All at once, she suddenly had a newfound admiration for the girl, for being so brave and so honourable. Her heart bled.
“You do realise that Prefects, even junior ones, are dealt with twice as severely as anyone else, don’t you?” Elizabeth met his gaze as best she could and answered, with voice quavering slightly, but still managing to display magnificent stoicism: “Yes Sir, I do.”
“This may appear grossly unfair to you, but are you aware of why this is the case?”
“Because, we’re supposed to know better, Sir.” A textbook reply that was delivered, totally devoid of all emotion.
“Correct. Therefore Miss Hayworth, you are to receive a total of twelve strokes.”
Elizabeth nodded grimly. “So be it,” she said with finality, more to herself, than as a comment aimed directly at the Deputy Head. The young Myra could not help but admire her dignity. She watched wide-eyed and open mouthed as Elizabeth draped herself over the Deputy’s desk in the way that she had done, not five minutes before. The pain of her still stinging cheeks faded into the background, as the unfortunate prefect shuffled into position while the Deputy flexed his cane. Elizabeth buried her face from sight; Myra knew that she must have been terrified and she also suspected that Elizabeth would be reluctant to give her punisher the satisfaction of crying out in anguish. Elizabeth was also of the philosophy that to cry in front of others was a sign of weakness. No, she would not allow herself to make her distress obvious. The Hayworths were made of strong stuff.
The first stroke landed and Elizabeth jolted forward, hissing through her teeth. The Deputy frowned and lined up the next shot. The cane whistled and burned another line of fire across her once spank-virgin cheeks. Elizabeth shook slightly from side to side, as she tried to assimilate this unbearable pain, without giving her punisher sadistic fulfilment. Her breathing was laboured, but her head remained buried out of sight. Her shoulders had, however began to quake. Was she crying? Myra could not tell. The Deputy was efficient and merciless and would not have paid even the loudest and most anguished cries any heed. The sixth stroke landed with a resounding crack and Elizabeth’s torso jolted; Myra momentarily saw her face screwed up in agony as she bit her lip and hissed with the pain, such was her determination not to give the Deputy any satisfaction. Mr Banner (for that was his name) paused momentarily, and threw down his cane.
“Defiant little madam, aren’t you?” he said, with a note of admiration in his voice. Elizabeth did not answer, but remained prostrate over the desk, panting and sweating. “Let’s see if you’re so bold after this!”
He walked to a cabinet in the corner of the room and retrieved a senior cane. Myra gasped in shock. Elizabeth craned her neck around to catch a glimpse of what was to strip her of her heroic façade. Her eyes saucered, but her overall expression remained the same. As the Deputy Head lined up his next stroke, Elizabeth faced the front, shuffled into the required position and braced herself. Crack!! The first of the second batch landed with pinpoint accuracy; yet another angry wheal swam to the surface of her once pristine posterior. There was no suppression this time; a pitiful yelp was heard from the morass of golden curls that fanned out across the surface of Mr Banner’s desk, her head buried into her left arm as her right clutched the furthest edge of the table. Again the cane fell, this time across the gluteal crease. Her head tilted back to give way to a tortured wail. The mask had slipped and her soul was laid bare as the third senior stroke impacted her tender flesh in the same place. Tears began to fall and her shoulders shook uncontrollably. Myra stood aghast, silently grateful that she was let off so lightly. She made a promise to herself that she would not taunt Elizabeth again, and felt sick with guilt. Poor girl! She thought. Mr Banner did not relent; Myra saw a slightly demented gleam in his eye and his lip curled in silent sadistic satisfaction and he let rip a stinging stroke across the back of Elizabeth’s thighs. Her screams could have frightened the birds out of the trees and she involuntarily kicked out her legs. The eleven-year-old Myra clamped her hands to her ears and started to cry. Why did she have to witness such brutality? The last two were aimed squarely at the gluteal crease, a particularly sensitive area of the bottom where a stroke or two of the cane is acutely penetrating. Elizabeth was a mental and physical wreck. Her hair was dishevelled; her face was red and tear-streaked and her clothes were creased. Both Myra and Elizabeth were dismissed and when they were out of that infernal office and into the relative sanctuary of the corridor, Myra threw her arms around Elizabeth and comforted her.
“Why the hell did you willingly put yourself through that?” Myra exclaimed as Elizabeth sobbed into her shoulder. “You could have got away with that. You didn’t need to say anything.”
Elizabeth looked up at her; “what, and prove to you that I’m part of a privileged elite that constantly gets away with murder? Any sort of power comes with responsibility; I’ve always been taught that. I know it’s only a bloody Junior Prefect badge and it’s more trouble than it’s worth if I’m being perfectly honest, but when you mess up, you have to take the flak for it.”
“I’m so sorry Liz for taunting you the way that I did. I’m responsible for that horrendous beating you’ve just had…”
Liz interrupted her. “Myra, it’s fine. I gave you good reason for you to hate me. I must have come across as a total snob.”
“Well, I certainly have every reason not to hate you now.” Myra took her hand and guided her to the girls’ toilets. “Let me do something to make it up to you.”
Hand in hand, they made their way to the loos; Myra took several paper towels out of the dispenser and soaked them in cold water. Liz once again lowered her knickers as Myra dabbed delicately at the livid wheals that criss-crossed her backside. Liz again showed typical stoicism as she tried to play down the agony that she was in.
“You don’t need to be brave in front of me any more,” Myra remarked. Friends can cry and expose themselves to each other…”
“I beg your pardon?!” came the indignant response.
“No, no! I mean, expose yourself emotionally – confide in each other. Tell each other secrets.”
“And bathe each others’ bottoms!” Liz laughed bitterly.
“Aye, I have the distinct feeling that we’re going to be doing a lot more bum bathing before we leave school!” The two ex-enemies laughed together and forged an unbreakable bond that would endure from that day forth. The present-day Myra reflected upon this strangled birth of a friendship as she left Mr. Tennant’s office and made her way to her next lesson: Phys. Ed.