The School for Grown Up Girls

I think that if school is the best years of your life then you stuffed up the rest of your life. I loved leaving school, I love my life. This is not about going back in time; it is not about regret or any sad thing.

It is just I wonder sometimes, what it would be like to go back but not in time, and not in the same way, I just wonder what it would be like to go back to school as a grown up, a different kind of school.

School as it was in real life is not what I want at all and this is my wondering so I am allowing myself to invent it however I wish. I have never done such a thing outside my own head. I am quite excited about it.

They would all be girls, grown up girls. Did I have to say that “grown up” bit? Consider that said for the rest of the scribbling, infer it for me if you don’t mind. The girls would not be the slutty school girl of vanilla imaginings -those hen night school girls who shriek “Spank me” just before falling over into a pile of drunks and drinks. The girls would not be the super confident spank queens that are thrilled to be told off and found out no matter what. Those girls would be no fun and there would be another school for them.

Our school would be a place to play, a place to be safe and happy. It would be strict and very consequential but that would work somehow.

The pupils would be girls who are not exhibitionists, but rather more modest. The pupils would be girls who want to learn something, anything. They would be brave and silly and fun in turn. Like proper grown up school girls.

There would be a uniform of course. Otherwise we would all feel like our age and our social position. A kilt I think, but not a tiny one. I like red but green would be good too. I don’t know about uniform, I want it to be a fait accompli before I arrived. Maybe a pinafore, that might be good.

The lessons would be all the stuff I wish I knew but didn’t. I love to learn and I spend most of my life feeling woefully undereducated. I do not with any certainty know the capitals of Europe (I can do the main ones but Andorra or Macedonia and countries like that. I have not a clue about those. I hope that does not make me too evil in your eyes).

I want to know about sentence diagrams and clauses and all of that whatnot. Sometimes I feel so thirsty for knowledge that I think I know nothing. I want to learn about some really stunning literature but I would like to study that alone and do some extended work on it. And I would love, love, love to learn some chemistry because I do not understand one word of it. I am a reasonably bright girl but chemistry just confuses me. I don’t like feeling that stupid.

The masters matter too. “Masters” is what we called teachers when I went to school, it is not a BDSM thing.

They would all be men, proper gown up men who look like they know what they are about. They would not be shouty or sudden, having to resort to cheap tricks to make a girl jump. They would have the relaxed demeanour of self certainty. They would also be terribly, terribly insightful and stern. They would have that discerning eye that allows them to cast a look across a room full of girls and pick out the one who has strayed, to detect the flicker of a rebellion.

I can see, with my mind’s eye, the scene I long for. He is lightly lined with experience, trim and neat in a dark suit and with precise knowledge of his subject and his charges.

I can’t even hear what is said, just see an exchange of words between the girl in the dark, demure uniform and himself. Her eyes are flicking down and to the side; his are gently unyielding, as though he is measuring her, as though he is waiting for his prey to make a run for it and has already marked out the path she will take. He has already seen where he will pick her up, where he will stop her.

It is unclear if she knows the depth of his control. She attempts a smile, a cheeky sideswipe at humour and then she pauses, detecting his subtle social indication that he wishes to speak.

He gives an instruction and she stands. Her fingertips rest on the desk, a port in her storm, a place of refuge and safety. She waits, looking down and then slowly is forced to leave the desk behind her and stumble to the front. Her nerves are such that, adult as she is, she walks like the most awkward schoolgirl, her limbs disobedient and clumsy.

At the front of the classroom, filled with desks with silent, awed girls she is stilled. Hands fluttering up to her mouth in a gesture of self comfort, they flick down to her side at his reprimand.

There is a chair at the front, simple, wooden backed and handsomely plain. It is placed behind her and she looks up at his for the first time with smiling hope but her face falls when she is guided to turn around and, realising that the chair is facing away from her, placed with practised hands over the back of it so that her hands rest on the seat.

Almost bent double, her bottom is presented to the still room. Her modest skirt reaches just below her knickers. Whilst she waits and watches her hair fall forward in front of her, her skirt is lifted and folded on her back, her white school underwear is taken down as though sheets folded down by a doctor. There is no emotion from him that can be detected. Every girl in the room is a torrent of feeling, horror, sympathy, jealousy, desire, fear, all mingling and rushing down to the centre.

The centre remains calm, his left hand placed on her back to give instructions about her conduct that led her to this junction and how to behave during her punishment. She would shake but for his hand and feeling his strength she resolves to endure this.

In his right hand rests a cane.

Her cry comes several moments after the cane first makes contact and the pause allows him to make second contact before she has caught her breath. The sound in the awed room is stark, a power in itself.

Her pale cheeks are mark

ed with neat lines, her body shakes with effort to accept the pain and she cries, tears running down her nose and falling onto the seat of the chair. She tries to follow them but loses focus as she is drawn back to the burning heat behind her. Her humiliation at her position is forgotten, an unimportant detail now, she starts to move a little, left and right and the master, feeling this stills her once more. She accepts the final six with pleading humility.

I leave her standing in the corner, hands tucked neatly behind her back, skirt and knickers providing a frame for her sore and swollen bum.

The class does not stare. Their eyes are on their own work.

Would you like another?