The Village School by William Rosenkrantz

[Morbidman]

The fourteen year-old schoolboy puffed up the lane, dodging the horse and cart, the farmer with his milk churns, and the spinsters in their crinolines shuffling from church. He turned into the gate of the tiny priory school, paused to adjust his cap and blazer, and passed through the entrance arch like a soul descending to Hades.

'Late again, Atkins!' boomed the towering figure of Mr Lane, half schoolmaster, half Lord of Darkness, dressed in black gown and mortar board, as the lad crept reluctantly through the classroom door.

'S...sorry, sir,' he whimpered. 'But I'm only five minutes late.'

'Only!' boomed Mr Lane, his mutton chop whiskers bristling. 'Late is late, and it is six minutes not five. One must always endeavour to be precise. Now, shorts down and over your desk, boy. A stroke of the cane for each minute of your tardiness.'

Atkins bent over the desk and gritted his teeth as Mr Lane took down the cane that hung upon the wall behind his desk.

'And this I do to save you from the gallows!' the teacher cried as he brought down Old Whistler with a swoosh.

The four other boys in the class – and there was but one class in the school, for Monkton was a small village – winced at the sight. Their parents paid handsomely for a good education in the middle of this rural shire, and education, as all Queen Victoria's subjects knew, was the acme that all civilised people sought to attain.



'I merely observe that moderation must be observed,' observed Mrs Lane that evening.

A greater contrast to her husband could hardly be imagined. He was forty-seven, his red face circumferenced by grey hair and whiskers, an ever-present scowl scorched upon his features. She was twenty-two, a pale-skinned, flame-haired beauty, tall but with delicate features, a bodice constricting her spectacular figure. He wore black, she wore brown, and a duller supper could not be imagined as the grandfather clock portioned out the silence of the small dining room.

'You think to tell me how to do my job, madam?' he puffed.

'I think you are perhaps just a trifle too hard on those boys, just a modicum. Might not a wife offer advice?'

'Might not an experienced schoolteacher, a headmaster of a respected school, a pillar of this community, have his authority recognised and not demeaned with impertinence!' he cried, his face red(der) with indignation.

'Impertinence is surely a word more suitable for a pupil?'

'Madam, if you do not wish to be treated like a disobedient student then kindly do not act like one!'

'Sir, I am your wife!'

'Madam, I am your husband and you must learn to obey authority or we shall all live in an anarchy.'

'Well I meant no offence to be sure!' murmured Mrs Lane.

'Did you not vow to obey me when we married?'

'Yes, husband,' she sighed.

'Then by the powers, madam, you shall obey my will without any questioning, is that clear?'

Mrs Lane nodded, tearful at her husband's thundering fury. He stood up and threw his napkin to the table.

'Obedience without question!' he boomed.

'Obedience without question,' said Mrs Lane, nodding.

'You must be taught a lesson yourself,' growled Mr Lane. 'That's the way to learn!'

And out he stomped



The next morning Mrs Lane stood before the mirror in the hallway, tying on her bonnet. Mr Lane entered holding an envelope.

'I'm just popping out to see -' she began.

'You are not,' said Mr Lane firmly

'But -'

'No buts, madam!' bellowed Mr Lane.

'Yes, sir,' replied his wife, bowing her head.

'Madam, I have warned you, have I not, that you must acknowledge my authority both in this house and in the school. Do not question me! You are worse than my pupils!'

'Sorry, sir,' she whispered.

'You are in need of a lesson,' he growled. 'I have just received word that Mr Harrison is out of sorts today. His neuralgia has returned. I am therefore engaged to give a lesson at the chorister school in Pittbury today; you must take the boys for Latin this morning.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I anticipate Atkins will be late again – errant pupil! Whether he is or not, you are to give this envelope to Atkins. Holly will know what to do.'

'Yes, sir,' replied Mrs Lane.

'And I warn you, madam, I expect the instructions to be carried out absolutely to the letter. I know you are too soft-hearted, so if I get to hear that my orders lack by one letter, there will be hell to pay with me. I bid you good day, madam,' said her husband curtly, and donning his stove hat and frock, turned to leave.

'Husband, what do think of my new bonnet?' asked Mrs Lane as sweetly as she could muster.

The scowl turned to look at her.

'Husband, do you not think me just a little pretty?'

'You are aware of my views on vanity?' the scowl asked.

Mrs Lane nodded with a sigh.

'Have I ever, even once, called you pretty or beautiful or any of these other ridiculous flammeries? No, madam, I have ever shunned vanity, as should you. Good day!'

And with that he flapped out like a crow.

'Good day!' said Mrs Lane to herself.





Mrs Lane entered the classroom and removed her bonnet. The windows set high in the wall prevented lazy students gazing out but let the summer sunshine in; indeed, though only nine o'clock it was already growing hot.

In the little classroom were the large teacher's desk and the five smaller desks of the pupils. Behind each desk, a boy stood to attention.

'Good morning, boys,' said Mrs Lane, pleasantly.

'Good morning, Mrs Lane,' chorused the boys.

'Mr Lane is deputising for Mr Harrison at Pittbury today; I shall be taking your classes this morning. Before we start, Atkins, please come here.'

Atkins visibly drooped as he walked over and stood before Mrs Lane. At five feet ten, she was uncommonly tall and Atkins eyes were exactly level with her bust. Red-faced, he looked at his shoes.

'Mr Lane said I was to give you this. Lavender, Mr Lane said you would know exactly what to do and he expects his instructions to be carried out to the letter.'

'Yes, miss,' said Lavender.

Atkins trudged back to his desk.

'Sorry, old boy,' whispered Lavender.

Atkins shrugged and opened the letter. He furrowed his brow.

'Pardon me, miss, but I don't think any credence should be attached to this note.'

'Nonsense!' snorted Mrs Lane. 'If we do not have rules in a school, we do not have a school. If we do not stick to the rules which hold school and society together, we have chaos. You will never catch me breaking the rules. Imagine if I or Mr Lane broke the rules whenever we liked. Anarchy would ensue. Do you want Great Britain to become an anarchy, Atkins?'

'No, miss, but -'

'There are no “buts”, Atkins. One does not pick and choose rules. One carries them out to the letter. One does one's duty. We must all obey the rules. Swear it with me, now - “we solemnly promise always, always to obey the rules.”

'We solemnly promise always, always to obey the rules,' chanted the boys mechanically.

'Good!' she said, satisfied. 'Now, what is wrong with the note?'

'Well, miss...the note says, and I quote, “the bearer of this note must receive a caning, the punishment being carried out immediately and to the letter,” signed Mr Lane.'

'Yes. I am sorry, Atkins, but as the bearer of the note, you are the one who must be caned. If it were up to me...but Mr Lane's wishes must be carried out to the letter.'

'But that's the problem, miss.'

'Your receiving a caning?'

'No. Well, normally yes, but what I mean is that I received the note from you. You are the bearer of the note.'

'Sorry?' said Mrs Lane, looking confused

'Whoever bears the note is the person who must be caned,' said Atkins, looking confused. 'That's you, miss.'

Mrs Lane stared at the boys, dumbfounded, then shook her head and laughed.

'But I am your teacher!'

'But miss,' piped up Lavender, 'You just said that without rules we would have anarchy. You said we would never catch you breaking the rules.'

'Yes, but...'

'You said that if we all broke the rules when we liked, Britain would descend into anarchy, miss,' said Greenslade.

'I know I said that but...'

'There are not buts, miss,' said Trewin. 'Rules are rules. They apply to high and low alike.'

'Look,' said Mrs Lane, flushing. 'Obviously I would obey this note if it were correct, but it is not correct.'

'But the note says -'

'I know what the note says, but the problem with the note is that I have not actually broken any school rules at all. If I had, I promise on my life I would submit to a caning just as the rules demand, but there has been no transgression on my part.'

Mrs Lane sighed with relief and smiled, happy to have slid out of a rather awkward situation

The relief lasted around eight seconds.

'Begging your pardon, Miss,' said Atkins, 'but you have broken the rules.'

'I most certainly have not!' cried Mrs Lane.

'Begging your pardon again, miss,' said Greenslade, 'but you're five minutes late.'

'Mr Lane caned Atkins for being five minutes late yesterday,' said Trewin.

Mrs Lane's pale face turned paler, if that were possible, as she realised with horror that she had completely trapped herself.

'Er, yes, well, er...I er...Very well! You are perfectly correct, I admit,' she shouted.

The boys stared at her. They had never seen Mrs Lane lose her temper before. She saw she was losing control of the situation and she knew it.

'Sorry, miss,' said Atkins. 'I didn't mean to speak out of turn. I won't speak of it again.'

'Thank you,' said Mrs Lane, gaining control of her emotions.

'We'll inform Mr Lane when he returns tomorrow and he can decide what to do.'

Mrs Lane gulped. This was the last thing she needed – being reported to her own husband by her own pupils for disobeying his orders! He would be furious! Incandescent!

'I don't want my husband to find – I mean, I don't think you need trouble him, so thank you for pointing out my transgression, boys. I shall, of course, abide by the rules, and report the matter to Mr Lane myself.'

'But the note says the punishment must be carried out immediately,' said Atkins looking mournfully at the note. 'If we disobey that, all of us will be for the high jump when Mr Lane finds out.'

'Six strokes of the cane,' said Greenslade.

'Six of the best,' said Lavender.

Mrs Lane flushed.

'Mr Lane is not here,' replied Mrs Lane firmly. 'So that's an end to it.'

'True, miss,' continued Atkins, 'and when this usually happens, such as when Mr Lane is called away, the task falls to the day's class monitor. Today it's Lavender.'

'You are not seriously suggesting that I, an adult woman, should submit myself to punishment at the hands of a group of fourteen year old boys? That I, a respected teacher and respectable married woman, should be spanked by my own pupils?'

'We aren't suggesting anything of the sort, miss,' said Atkins defensively. 'Mr Lane is.'

'We aren't making it up, miss,' chimed in Greenslade. 'It's just Mr Lane will be fizzing with fury if he finds out his orders were disregarded.'

Mrs Lane shuddered at the thought of the towering fury her husband would explode into if her own pupils revealed she had directly and explicitly disobeyed his orders. What was she to do? She was completely at a loss as to how to get out of her predicament. Caught between a rock and a hard place, what could she choose? Rule and order? Or anarchy and chaos?

The boys looked at her expectantly.

She looked around desperately, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. What could she say?

There was only one thing she could say.

'Rule and order,' she whispered.

[Morbidman]

With sudden resolve she looked up.

'And who is to spank m- I mean, who is classroom monitor today?' she asked, quelling the nervousness in her voice.

Holly adjusted his large bottle spectacles and raised his hand.

'Very well, Holly. Get up and let's get this over with as soon as possible. Quickly, boy!'

She snapped out the words and handed him the cane.

'Do it quickly, do you hear?'

Holly gulped, nodded, and nervously stood by Mrs Lane's side.

Mrs Lane looked around at her pupils. The eyes of each boy were bulging in his shiny, sweating face. She wanted to run out of the classroom and never return.

'Control yourself!' she thought. 'You are an Englishwoman!'

She took a deep breath, held up her chin, and with as much pride and authority as she could summon (an admittedly minuscule amount), she bent over the desk.

Bend over - such a simple act! Yet her face burned at the humiliation as she noted each boy was now staring immodestly at her raised bottom, each internally gleeful at this incredible circumstance that had come from a clear blue sky, like a gift from the gods.

'Begin, Holly!' she hissed.

Holly licked his lips as he drew back the cane and brought it down as feebly as he could upon Mrs Lane's rump – though not quite feeble enough for her to let out an 'ooh!'



It was an even quieter supper than usual that evening at the Lane's cottage. Even Mr Lane, who usually displayed all the sensitivity of a dry stone wall, noticed his wife's subdued demeanour.

'All well with the class today?' he asked gruffly.

'Everything went as you wished it,' she replied without looking up from her soup.

'Ah! Learned a lesson, eh?' he observed, nodding approval.

'Was it really necessary?' she hissed through gritted teeth.

'Discipline!' replied Mr Lane bluntly.

'In front of the boys!'

'They're used to it.'

'I'm not!'

'Really, madam, I fail to see what you object to.'

She looked at him, dumbfounded.

'Spanked in front of a class of boys?' she asked, utterly incredulous.

'Atkins has been thrashed lots of times. He should be glad it was Holly doing it, not me.'

'Atkins?' asked Mrs Lane, puzzled.

'Of course! Who else?' asked Mr Lane. 'You alright?'

Mrs Lane went pale.

Atkins! And she thought her husband had wanted to teach her a lesson! Which meant she had bent over that desk and been spanked in front of those boys...for nothing.

She felt sick.

'I trust that will be the last time you will need me in class for some time,' she said, simulating nonchalance.

'Your trust is misplaced. I want you there tomorrow. I'll be off to Pittbury again tomorrow. You must deputise for me again.'

'But I can't!' she cried.

Mr Lane glared at her.

'Whatever do you mean, woman?' he growled.

'Oh, I, er, I mean to say, I...feel off colour.'

'You look alright to me. No excuses, I shall expect you in class tomorrow.'

'But -'

'I shall have no buts, madam! You shall do as I command. And if you are off colour it is because of that sickly pale skin of yours. By God I should have married a firmer woman, not a milksop like you.'

Tears came to Mrs Lane's eyes.

'If you'll excuse me' she gulped, and left the room, fighting back the tears.



Mrs Lane walked silently into the classroom the next morning. The five boys went pale, sensing the calm before the storm. She stood before them, still as a statue, her eyes alone alive – but alive with anger. Each boy lowered his gaze. They were in trouble and how they knew it.

'I spoke to Mr Lane yesterday,' she began, the simmering fury in her voice flickering above her attempts at enforced calm. 'He intimated a most singular piece of news. The disciplinary note that I showed you yesterday was intended for Atkins, not for me. Furthermore, all of you were fully cognisant of this fact, were you not?'

Silence.

'Were you not?' she hissed.

The boys nodded mournfully.

Mrs Lane picked up the master's cane and flexed it as she walked up and down.

'Well I hope you are all very pleased with yourselves. I'm sure you have all told your little friends in the village about this. I am sure you all had a good snigger. But did you consider the consequences? My reputation is ruined. Wherever I go, I will hear whispered conversations, knowing looks. I shall simply have to move. The school will have to close, and I hope each one of you enjoys your walk to the nearest school at Middlesham – seven miles there and seven miles back. And while your dull and wicked minds reflect upon that prospect, you may also contemplate the thrashing that each of you is about to receive for what you have done to me.'

Her voice had risen to a shout, shocking the boys and turning their legs to water at seeing an adult, and such a prim, respectable adult, losing their temper like this. This pathetic wilting was not lost on Mrs Lane, who even in her towering fury began to wonder if she'd overdone it. She looked down to see her knuckles white as they gripped the cane, and passion gave way a little to reason.

'Well, have you nothing to say for yourselves?' she asked, aware of her quivering voice.

A cowed silence reigned for some seconds before Lavender piped up.

'Excuse me, miss, but we haven't told anyone.'

She looked at him blankly.

'What do you mean?'

'I mean miss, begging your pardon, miss, that we spoke to no one about...about what happened yesterday. None of us, miss.'

Lavender looked up at her like a guilty puppy, all wide eyes and worried brow.

'You...you haven't...?'

'No, miss.'

She snorted in derision.

'You don't expect me to believe that! 'I know what boys are like.'

She actually had only the vaguest notion what boys where like.

'But we can't tell anyone, miss – ever,' joined in Greenslade, looking as if he'd give all his pocket money for the earth to swallow him up.

Mrs Lane lowered the cane and looked puzzled.

'First, no one would ever believe us. Second, if word ever got back to our parents that we had been spreading such lies, we'd all be whipped for a month.'

'My father would whip me for six!' lamented Atkins in a voice full of weary familiarity with corporal punishment.

'Third, we'd be expelled from the school, which would mean no other good school would ever take us – not even Middlesham.'

'I'd never become a doctor,' squeaked Trewin, almost in tears.

'But most of all, miss, more than all this, we would never dare face a caning from Mr Lane,' finished Greenslade, pronouncing 'Mr Lane' in the sort of tone one might reserve for 'Satan' – which, in the minds of the boys, were almost interchangeable save for the fact that Mr Lane held a great deal more terror than the Fiend and all his goblins.

'He'd murder us!' cried Trewin in horror.

'He'd thwack us to a pulp!' gulped Lavender in terror.

'He'd butcher us!' gibbered Holly.

'I'd be eighty-five before I would be able to sit down again!' whispered Atkins, aghast.

'No, miss, not for all the tea in China will anyone ever find out what happened,' moaned Greenslade. 'In fact, we were rather hoping that you wouldn't tell anyone.'

'Please, Miss,' said Atkins, heartfelt. 'This is the best school for miles. If any of us get expelled, it would set our lives back. We need a good education if we're to fulfil our stations in life. Please, miss!'

The boys looked up imploringly at her.

Mrs Lane surveyed the five frightened faces and the heat went out of her anger. She realised it was fear that had made her angry, but now the threat of exposure of her exposure had passed her better nature returned. Just look at them, she thought – how could she ever have been afraid of such timid boys? She was in control again and the confidence surged through her.

'It's still no excuse,' she said, this time forcing a hardness into her voice. 'You should have told me the note was for Atkins.'

'We're awfully sorry for causing you so much, distress, miss.' said Greenslade. The other boys nodded.

'Yes, we would have told you only -' began Trewin, then immediately fell silent, blushing.

'It's just what?' asked Mrs Lane, puzzled.

'Nothing, miss,' said Trewin in a barely audible whisper. She looked round at the other boys. They were all blushing, heads down, as well.

'What is it?' she asked.

She could feel the embarrassment emanating from the boys. She decided Trewin would be the easiest to crack.

'Trewin!' she snapped gently. 'Tell me!'

The shock did the trick. The mouse of a boy looked up fearfully.

'Only...only...you're...you'reversobeautifulmiss.'

Silence. Total silence. The gentle tick of the clock boomed out the seconds.

'It's true, miss,' said Lavender one and a half eternities later. 'We all think you're beautiful. Sorry, miss.'

'We know we should have told you, miss,' said Greenslade, 'but when we realised you were going to be...I mean, it's hard to explain we just...it seemed very...very...nice.'

He fell silent.

She stared at the boys in amazement.

'You think...think I am...pretty?' she stammered. It had been so long since she had heard any compliment about her looks that she had literally forgotten what it was to be praised.

'No, miss, we do not think you are pretty,' mumbled Atkins.

'Good!' she said falsely. 'Good, this is a classroom, not a village fete.'

'We think you are the most beautiful woman we have ever seen,' he added, stumbling over his words, his face burning red, eyes riveted to the floor.

'You're the most handsome women we've ever seen, that's all, miss,' mumbled Atkins, burning red, eyes riveted to the floor.

And now it was Mrs Lane's turn to blush. Beautiful! No one had said that to her since...since...

She tried to recall.

Since before her marriage. Five years of marriage and not once had her husband ever called her beautiful, never even hinted that she possessed the slightest modicum of beauty nor, indeed, that she was female at all save in the sense that she was merely not male. On the contrary, she had endured five years of harshness, peevishness, sneering at her attempts to look good for her husband, snipes about her pale skin, her figure, her clothes.

And now praise. For the first time. In five long, cheerless years.

The effect was intoxicating.

'I...I really don't know what to say,' she said, and aside from 'I really don't know what to say' she really did have no idea what to say.

The silence returned. The boys burned. Mrs Lane blushed. And inside all of them such turmoil! Mrs Lane's mind turned over and over, almost as much as her insides did.

It was a long, long time before she spoke.

'You all...liked it, did you?' she asked as dispassionately as she could counterfeit.

Five pathetic nods came back.

And,' she began, trailing her finger along the edge of the desk, 'you failed to warn me of my error because...you enjoyed watching me?'

The boys nodded, ashamed.

'Well it was wrong of you,' said Mrs Lane, decisively. 'It was naughty. Naughty. It was very...naughty.'

The word resonated in her head like a bell.

Her heart seemed to be beating quite fast.

She bit her lip.

She moved her hand upwards to pat her hair and, as she did so, unthinkingly brushed her arm across her own chest. The thrill shocked her to her senses again.

She saw her five charges in a stew of embarrassment, misery and fear.

'Shall we all agree to make this our little secret?' she asked.

The boys looked up and shook their heads vigorously as if saved from the jaws of doom. Each swore they would never breathe a word and heartfelt sincerity poured from them.

'Well, time to begin where we left off. Would you all take out your Thucydides and turn to – something wrong, Atkins?'

Atkins trembled, white as milk. The other boys began to snigger.

'It's the note, miss,' chortled Greenslade. 'It said he was to be spanked each day for a week. And Mr Lane must always be obeyed, miss.'

'Yes,' sighed Mrs Lane. 'He must. Very well, Atkins, let's get this over with.'

Atkins remained seated, growing paler as the sniggering grew louder.

'Boys!' snapped Mrs Lane. 'What is it Atkins?'

Atkins bowed his head almost in tears and stood up as if walking to the scaffold.

'Don't look so pale, Atkins,' said Mrs Lane. 'I may not have administered a caning before but I'm sure you must be used to it by now.'

'Yes, miss, but it's just I've never had a caning from a lady before.'

'And what of it?' asked Mrs Lane.

'You're forgetting, miss,' reminded Greenslade. 'All canings are to be carried out sans impediment.'

'Sorry?' she asked, uncomprehending.

'In the fresh air, miss, so to speak.'

'Come on, Akkers! Get 'em off!' chortled Holly. 'Rules are rules!'

The other boys laughed at their friend's mortification.

'Well I'm sure there will be no need for that. You can keep your shorts on, Atkins.'

'But Holly is right, miss,' said Greenslade, 'Mr Lane insists on it. Shorts and underpants down – bare bott...well, you know.'

A thrill of horror went through Mrs Lane. She had no wish whatsoever to see Atkins bottomless, let alone have to thrash him in that state. Yet what could she do? Mr Lane was pitiless in having his rules obeyed.

Mrs Lane observed her pupil's embarrassment and felt sorry for him. She felt the grain in the wood of the cane, heard in her mind the sound of it swooping down, recalled the sting and the sound as it landed smartly. She empathised and imagined herself in his position. None of this would ever have had to happen were it not for her hated husband.

Hated?

Yes. Yes, she hated him, the man who treated her with disdain, the man who never complimented her, the man who never once thought her beautiful. Indeed, she had had more compliments from these boys in one morning than from her husband in their whole married life.

The two thoughts touched – years of unkindess from her husband, a torrent of praise from these boys.

The question remained – how was she to avoid punishing Atkins sans shorts?

Rules. Cane. Discipline. Punishment. Naughtiness. In front of the class. Naughty. Very naughty.

Then suddenly a word presented itself to her. It appealed to her sense of fair play, of duty. The word was 'sacrifice'. She sacrifice herself and resolve this situation. But what a sacrifice! The thought of it made her feel terrified, faint...and incredibly thrilled But it was the only way.

'I observe,' she began slowly, 'that although the note was undoubtedly intended for Atkins, the master's instructions very clearly state that the bearer of the note was to be punished.'

The boys looked puzzled. Mrs Lane continued.

'And since I was the bearer of the note, there can be no equivocation about it. We must carry out the master's instructions to the letter, so it is only correct that...'

She paused and gulped, her mouth dry, then placed the cane upon the desk.

'...I must be punished,'

[Morbidman]

Five pairs of eyes stared at her.

'Don't you agree that is what the note says, boys?' she asked.

Five young heads nodded vigorously.

'Rules are rules,' she said breathlessly, hardly believing what she was saying. 'Sit down, Atkins'.

Atkins sat down.

Five, fourteen year old boys now sat upright at their desks, hearts hammering, uncertain what was going to happen next.

Mrs Lane stood before them, her heart hammering, almost not believing what was going to happen next.

'Class,' she said in a trembling voice, 'Rules are rules. We must obey or we are lost, both personally and as a nation. Do you agree?'

Vigorous nodding.

'Therefore, the punishment must be administered to me exactly as if I were a naughty pupil. Do you understand?'

Less certain nodding here.

'So forget that I am your teacher. You must treat me as if I were just a pupil who is to be punished. Understand?

Baffled nodding.

'Now, first, who is to administer my discipline? Who is monitor today?'

Lavender uncertainly raised his hand.

'Lavender, you must take Mr Lane's role. Understand?'

Lavender blinked like a mole caught in the sunlight before finally nodding once.

Mrs Lane stood expectantly before the class. Five boys looked expectantly at one another for guidance.

'Well?' she said.

More nervous glances.

'Just pretend I'm like Atkins!' she suggested.

'A tall order!' said Greenslade. The others laughed. The tension broke a little. Mrs Lane crossed her arms and stared at Lavender who responded by opening and closing his mouth like a landed carp.

'What would Mr Lane say?' exclaimed Mrs Lane.

All eyes turned to Lavender who looked more and more flustered until he suddenly stood upright, ramrod straight and cried 'Discipline!'

There was a murmur of surprise from the others.

'I...we...we must to...we must have rules,' he stammered. 'This school, this...country is based on rules. And rules require discipline. You...er, miss! I mean, girl. I mean, you, boy!' and here he addressed himself to Mrs Lane, 'What do rules require?'

Lavender found himself breathing heavily after this sudden outburst. He looked nervously at Mrs Lane. She gave him an approving nod then suddenly snapped her gaze forward like a soldier at attention.

'Discipline,' she replied.

'Discipline wh...what?' ventured Lavender.

'Discipline...sir,' she breathed.

'And if you break the rules, boy, what happens to you?' asked Lavender, holding onto his role like a rider on a nervous horse.

'I must be punished, sir,' replied the teacher.

The air began to grow heavy, as if static electricity were present. Lavender gulped. The boys were breathless.

'Then assume the position,' said Lavender in a thick voice.

The boys gazed at their teacher. She stood tall and erect, as proud as marble, looking straight ahead, the epitome of Victorian respectability.

'But, sir,' she said hoarsely, 'have not you forgotten something?'

'Er...have I?' asked Lavender.

'The punishment is to be applied to my...uncovered posterior.'

Lavender's jaw flapped up and down as motor control failed him momentarily. He flushed bright red.

'The only trouble is...my garments do not permit it,' crooned Mrs Lane.

The sound of deflated hopes was almost audible and Mrs Lane saw in the boys' faces the instant transformation from boggle-eyed amazement to resigned disappointment.

'Therefore,' said Mrs Lane huskily, 'to comply with the rules which must always be obeyed, I must remove my garments entirely.

For the next half minute, the most complete silence in the history of education ruled. Uncertainty, confusion and hope flickered ceaselessly across each boy's face, and Mrs Lane thrilled at her transformation from mocked, put-upon wife to object of adoration.

'Should I proceed?' she asked.

Lavender nodded automatically and vigorously, his expression fixed as if he were having a fit.

She took a moment to look around. She was not in the privacy of her boudoir but in a classroom with sunlight streaming in through a high window. Before her were chairs and desks, familiar and mundane. She saw five faces: Atkins with his fat features and apple cheeks; Greenslade with his mop of uncombed hair; Lavender, smartly turned out; Trewin, nervous as a mouse; and Holly, squinting through his thick-rimmed spectacles. She was dressed conservatively in a long, cream dress with long sleeves, buttoned up almost to her chin and decorated only with a small pearl necklace. Her red hair was up and piled elegantly on her head.

One well-developed adult female, standing like a pillar of white purity, in a classroom with five fourteen year-old boys.

She took a deep breath then, slowly, with shaking hands, she reached up to her throat and undid the first stud.

And the second.

And the third.

And the fourth.

When has finished unbuttoning the fifth stud her white throat was bare.

The boys sat in rivetted silence.

To her amazement she now began unfastening the topmost of the twenty buttons. Click, click, click. A full two minutes of delicious progression was watched with wrapt attention by ten youthful eyes.

When the last of the buttons was opened, the dress lay open several inches below the level of her hips. She wriggled out of it, letting it fall to the floor.

Five jaws fell to the floor.

She wore a long, cotton underskirt with a corset over a long chemise. The corset had been essential for maintaining the shape of the dress, but now the dress was gone it hyper-accentuated the swell of her spectacular bust.

Breathlessly she unfastened the studs down the front of her corset, each opening with a great pop in the silence of the classroom. She placed it on the floor, then wriggled out of her cotton underskirt which was soon lying by the corset.

The boys gazed in an almost apoplectic state. Mrs Lane, as prim and proper as ever, now stood before them, her cheeks flushed, her chest swelling, with only thin cotton now clinging to her curves, the last remaining item of clothing to be removed - a very long chemise. There were no buttons, just half a dozen silk ribbons all the way down the front.

Mrs Lane gazed straight ahead, aware of the heavy breathing of her pupils. Her heart hammered so hard that she felt each beat in her throat. Like a person falling forward over a precipice, she felt herself now bound on a course she was unable to turn from. She raised her hands and began slowly to undo the silk ties at the front of her chemise.

One silk tie. Two silk ties. Three silk ties.

The cotton parted gradually, revealing a narrow line of porcelain-white flesh from her throat to her sternum.

Her trembling fingers slowly undid the simple bows remaining.

Four silk ties. Five silk ties. Six silk ties.

As the last came loose, a V-shaped gap opened down to her navel, her breasts now tantalisingly half-revealed.

Her breath came in deep gulps. Her head swam and she almost thought she might faint. She tried to stare ahead but could see the eyes of the boys wide as dinner plates, almost willing the clothing to fall from her body. She froze before the intensity of their stares, unsure what to do, trapped in an ecstasy of embarrassment and excitement. At last Lavender spoke.

'Come along!' he said whispered with urgency.

Mrs Lane found herself completely immobile.

'Looks like the new chap is reluctant, boys,' said Lavender.

'Off!' cried Greenslade, a wild look in his eyes.

'Yeah, get 'em off!' joined in the others and within seconds Mrs Lane found herself facing a group of braying boys all chanting 'Off! Off! Off! Off!'

There was only one thing she could do.

Fearfully, she slowly brought her hands to her shoulders.

'Off! Off! Off! Off!'

She took a deep breath.

'Off! Off! Off! Off!'

And she let the chemise slip to the floor.

Silence.

In front of her own class stood Mrs Lane, her red hair piled elegantly up, completely nude save for a pair of white stockings topped with a couple of tiny pink bows, ankle-high lace-up boots, and a string of cream-coloured pearls round her neck. Her entire body was as pale as milk save for the neat, ginger triangle below. Her E-cup breasts were big and ripe, the erect nipples hard and firm upon her perfectly circular, rosy-pink areolae. A narrow waist and the curve of her hips formed an incredible hourglass figure.

A respected 24 year old woman exposed to the lustful glances of a class of spotty faced, snotty nosed, inky-fingered adolescent boys, her own pupils, not five feet from her, she had never felt more naked in her life.

Or more excited.

'Is this acceptable, boys?' she asked demurely.

Five heads nodded vigorously to the point of brain damage.

'I am ready for my punishment, sir,' she said to Lavender.

It took Lavender some moments to return from his temporary coma.

'Er, yes, right,' he said coherently. He cleared his throat.

'Bring me the instrument of your punishment!'

'Yes, sir,' she whispered and walked to the teacher's desk to retrieve the cane, acutely aware of the five pairs of eyes watching the gently curves and undulations of her buttocks. She picked it up and stood before Lavender, the cane lying upon her outstretched hands, her breasts pointed like the guns of a dreadnought directly at his face. With some effort, Lavender managed to focus on the cane and took it.

'Perhaps the boys would like to gather round for a closer look?' she suggested. 'So they may better observe my punishment and learn from it.'

'An excellent idea,' replied Lavender croakily, and the class concurred by leaping up as one. Mrs Lane thrilled to instantly find herself not just nude but now closely surrounded by a gang of boys, all within touching distance of her.

'Go to the desk!' said Lavender firmly.

The thrill of being ordered by a pupil seemed curiously delicious to Mrs Lane. She walked over to the teacher's desk and stood to attention before it.

'Not that desk!' said Lavender, to her surprise. 'That one!' he said, pointing to his own.

'Yes, sir,' said Mrs Lane. 'Sorry, sir.'

Uncertain as to the reason for this command, she walked past the ogling boys and stood before one of the boy's desks.

'Now bend over!' ordered Lavender.

'Yes, sir!' she breathed and, taking her time, leaned over until her tummy rested upon the wooden top. In this position she now understood why Lavender had chosen this desk. It was low, so her bottom stuck higher in the air in anticipation of her spanking. It was also small, which resulted in her heavy breasts hanging over the edge like plump, over-filled wine skins. How had Lavender spotted this? It was almost as if he had spent time thinking about it. She suddenly felt a thrill run through her. Was that the case? Had Lavender often dreamed of respectable Mrs Lane spread naked over a desk? Had the other boys? Was she now willingly fulfilling their lustful adolescent fantasises? She thought of the peached curves of her bottom presented, offered, to these young, teenage lads, and could hardly breathe with the excitement of it all.

'Now, what comes next?' asked Lavender rhetorically.

'Punishment!' gasped Mrs Lane.

'Look at me when I am talking to you!'

Remaining in her position to turned her head to look over her shoulder, wide-eyed and breathless.

'I must be punished, sir.'

'Six strokes of the cane. Remain in position at all times or I shall start again at one.'

'Yes, sir,' she breathed, then looked ahead, bracing herself for the first stroke.

Whoosh! Smack!

An electric jolt ran through her body as the first blow came down. It was not particularly hard or painful, but the mere sensation of it upon her bottom came as a shock to Mrs Lane.

Whoosh! Smack!

The second one was a little harder, but pleasantly stingy rather than painful.

Whoosh! Smack! Whoosh! Smack! Whoosh! Smack!

The boys delighted to see their teacher's bottom jiggle exquisitely under each stroke, but Mrs Lane was well aware that Lavender was deliberately holding back, not daring to employ even a modicum of the force for a true spanking.

'One must always be true to oneself,' thought Mrs Lane to herself. 'Rules must be carried out in spirit not merely in letter.'

So it was that as Lavender lifted his arm to administer the final stroke, Mrs Lane stood up.

'Return to your position!' commanded Lavender.

Mrs Lane shook her head.

'If you don't, we will have to force you.'

'Then you will have to force me,' she whispered.

The five boys gulped.

'You know what Mister Lane does to a boy who refuses a spanking?' she asked.

'He gets the other boys to restrain him,' croaked Lavender.

Mrs Lane bit her lip and nodded.

'Ties!' he said, and the other four boys fumbled to remove their purple and blue ties.

'You must submit to these restraints,' said Lavender sternly.

'Yes, sir,' replied Mrs Lane demurely. 'I submit. Do what you must to me.'

She submissively raised her wrists before her like a prisoner awaiting handcuffs. Lavender gave a nod. Two boys took a wrist each, the other two an ankle. She thrilled as they lashed their ties around her wrists and ankles with hot, fumbling fingers. She breathed deeply with excitement, aware that each expanded breath forced out her spectacular chest, now only inches from Lavender's drooling face, while the two boys behind her were obviously admiring her rump. She blushed as she realised that her areolae were now shockingly pink and that her nipples had swelled to the point where any of the boys could have hung his school cap there. An electric quiver ran through her as she stood nude before them, thrillingly aware that her own pupils were staring in wonder at her enormous breasts, like dogs feasting upon a juicy bone. She almost swooned when she thought that minutes ago only her husband had ever seen her nude, yet now she was about to put her nubile, young body completely at the mercy of five fourteen year old boys.

She looked Lavender directly in the eye. Lavender looked her directly in the body.

'Bind her to the desk, boys!' he cried.

She gasped as they grabbed her, each taking a limb, and hauled her over the desk. She struggled in vain as they bound her wrists and ankles to the wooden legs then stood around her, breathing heavily as they admired their handiwork.

She felt more vulnerable than ever before. Tied firmly, she could no longer move. She looked around at the boys and, with her eyes at crotch level, saw only too clearly the effect she had on them. But more than this, with her legs apart, she realised that the boys were presented with a full view of the most delicate flower of her womanhood. She was both horrendously mortified and indescribably excited by such complete exposure, such complete vulnerability. Here she was, a tall, beautiful, well-built women of twenty-five, yet if that mouse of a boy, Trewin, chose to cup and fondle her heavy breasts, she could do nothing but submit. Indeed, she thought with an electric thrill, if these five adolescent boys simply wanted to make her their plaything for the rest of the day she would be utterly at their mercy.

Her head swam as forbidden thoughts dashed hither and thither through her brain.

'Ready for your punishment?' intoned Lavender suddenly.

She looked up with submissive eyes.

'Yes, sir,' she crooned, before licking her lips and adding, 'I need a good, hard spanking.'

With a gulp, Lavender took his position posterior to his teacher's posterior and raised the cane. He paused, then...

[Morbidman]

Whoosh! Smack!

The boys watched in paradisical wonder as their teacher's milk-white buttocks jiggled enchantingly under the firm blow.

'Ooh!' cried Mrs Lane, her lips a perfect 'o'.

Whoosh! Smack!

'Ooooh!' cried out Mrs Lane, arching her back in response to the sudden pain.

'Silence!' ordered Lavender. 'Ackers!

Atkins turned his fat, sweating face from Mrs Lane's sweating body to Lavender. Lavender nodded at Atkins pocket and then at the teacher. Atkins smiled in acknowledgement and walked round to face Mrs Lane.

'Open your mouth!' he ordered.

Mrs Lane looked up in surprise, before nodding and obeying. Naked, spread over a desk, spanked, and now looking up open-mouthed like a dumb animal. From his pocket, Atkins produced a sticky paper bag of gobstoppers. He placed one in her mouth.

'Done?' asked Lavender.

'No,' replied Atkins. 'We can put a lot more than that into her mouth.'

He took out another gobstopper and fitted it into her mouth. He felt his teacher's lips, wet and sticky, move over his grubby fingers.

'Finished?' asked Lavender.

Atkins looked at Mrs Lane with her bulging cheeks.

'Room for one more,' I think, replied Atkins.

Mrs Lane's eyes widened and she shook her head.

'She's refusing,' exclaimed Atkins.

'Is she now?' cried Lavender and fetched her bottom a stinging blow.

'Mmmggummppff!' cried Mrs Lane, the muscles in her buttocks fluttering with pain. Atkins crammed an extra gobstopper into her open mouth. It did not quite fit. He looked at her pink, full, pouting mouth and thought of all the men in the village who would have given a week's wages for a kiss from those perfect lips, then he inserted his grubby, sticky fingers into her moist mouth and probed about, trying to fit the last gobstopper into place as, wide-eyed, Mrs Lane endured this humiliation, unable to protest. At last the deed was done. Three gobstoppers now forced the teacher's jaws wide open so that the only noise she was capable of making was a sort of gagging sound in the back of her throat.

'Well done, Ackers!' cried Lavender. 'Now, take that!'

Lavender brought the cane now with a mighty swoop.

'Mmmmmmm!' cried Mrs Lane, her body rising as if an electric current had been put through her.

'And that! And that! And that!' cried Lavender.

Swish! Smack! Swish! Smack! Swish! Smack!

Mrs Lane's naked body arched and writhed on the table before the boys, her breasts swinging and bottom jiggling delightfully for their entertainment, her thighs and buttocks wriggling and flexing in a futile attempt to avoid the stinging blows.

Suddenly the blows stopped.

Lavender look breathlessly down at his handiwork. Mrs Lane's perfect, milky, peach of a bottom was the perfect blank canvas for the vivid red lines across it. He stared as if transfixed for a few moments before a noise broke his reverie. Strapped to the table, Mrs Lane lay limp and moaning, deep breaths sending shudders through her white-skinned nudity.

After a long silence, where the boys silently feasted their eyes, Lavender spoke.

'Well, do you want to stay like that all day?' he asked sternly.

There was a surprisingly long pause from Mrs Lane before she looked upwards at him and shook her head.

Lavender nodded at his classmates who lingered a little longer, enjoying the sight, then untied the teacher's bonds.

Mrs Lane stood up. Her cheeks were flushed – and her other cheeks were flushed. Her milk white skin glowed from the heat and the exertion. Her pink areolae had grown very pink, the nipples almost shining with stiffness.

'Have you learned your lesson?' asked Trewin with a simulation of authority.

Mrs Lane nodded her head ruefully. She stood with her hands on her bottom, head bowed.

'Stand up straight when you are spoken to!' cried Lavender.

This sudden command seemed surprise Lavender as much as it did Mrs Lane and the other boys. To the boys' delight, Mrs Lane drew herself up to her full height and stood with her hands by her sides, her chest thrust out, looking straight ahead.

At the mercy of a boy's command, Mrs Lane was tingling with awareness of her nudity, the milk whiteness of her skin entirely on display for her adolescent charges. She almost fainted with the excitement. But now the punishment was over, she was keenly aware of being a nude woman in a classroom of boys, and that anyone could walk into the class – and that would be her career, her reputation, and her marriage over. Anxiousness replaced the excitement. She made to remove the gobstoppers but Lavender immediately held up an admonishing finger. Mrs Lane returned to attention but looked back and forth from the boys to her clothes with pleading eyes.

'The punishment is over,' said Lavender solemnly. Relief washed over Mrs Lane as disappointment engulfed the other boys. 'The rules state that once the pupil is punished, the lesson must resume.'

Mrs Lane turned to her clothes.

'However,' said Lavender, walking around his teacher as if she were some species of specimen, 'The subject is not a pupil. Gentlemen, we have a decision to make. Should Mrs Lane put on her clothes and resume teaching? Or do we believe that such a misdemeanour would besmirch the exalted role of teacher and, therefore, purely in order to indicate our respect for the position of pedagogue, the noble profession - nay calling - that is teaching, Mrs Lane should be required to spend the rest of the lesson standing in the corner with her hands on her head?'

Trewin coughed and raised his hand.

'Might I enquire: for the latter choice, would Mrs Lane be...undressed?'

'Most certainly,' replied Lavender emphatically.

'Then I vote for the latter,' cried Trewin enthusiastically, before adding in more restrained tones, 'Purely to uphold our respect for the exalted state of learning you understand.'

'Oh, we understand,' replied Lavender, nodding his approval.

Mrs Lane looked pleadingly at the other boys.

'I vote for punishment,' replied Atkins, addressing Mrs Lane's thrusting breasts.

'Me too,' replied Holly, peering at Mrs Lane's form through his spectacles.

Only Greenslade remained silent.

'I don't agree,' he said at last.

Mrs Lane's heart jumped at the prospect of her predicament ending. She was now terribly anxious that anyone might come through the door and witness her inexcusable situation.

'You won't vote with us?' asked Atkins, astounded.

'Only on one condition,' replied Greenslade.

'We will not be blackmailed!' cried Trewin warmly.

'My condition is that Mrs Lane does not stand in the corner. She is a teacher, so she should keep her teacher's position – standing directly before us.'

There was a pause.

'We will be blackmailed!' cried Trewin.

'Unanimous!' cried Lavender and turned to Mrs Lane.

'Miss, would you be so good as to place your hands on your head? That is, of course, an imperative masquerading as an interrogative.'

Blushing, she complied.

'Now, chaps, on with the lesson. If you are stuck for inspiration, I urge you to look up to our noble teacher.'

And they did. Many times. Many, many times.

For Mrs Lane stood before them, hands on head, mouth filled with the gobstoppers, the sticky saliva dripping over her chin onto her enormous, ripe knockers and rolling slowly down her voluptuous, hourglass body.



The lesson was a terrific success. The boys had never worked so hard at their Latin before. Their usual lethargy and half-heartedness was replaced with an almost fanatical desire to get to correctly conjugate their accusatives, datives and vocatives.

But at last five o'clock came round and the lesson ended. Mrs Lane removed the gobstoppers and hastily dressed. Within minutes of the clock striking the hour she was the buttoned-up, pleated dress, respectable, conservative, if slightly ruffled, familiar figure once more.

'Class dismissed,' she whispered.



It was a curious sight that met Mr Lane's eyes as he strolled with his wife that evening.

'What on earth are they up to?' he said to her, nodding at his pupils playing in a field. They were gathered around an enormous oak tree and were hitting its trunk with a stick. There voices were heard faintly on the wind.

'No, not like that!'

'Loosen your arm!'

'All the way back, then smartly down!'

'Technique! Try to emulate Mr Lane! He's the master.'

'You see, my dear,' said Mr Lane, pointing at the boys with his cane, 'I've inspired them.'

'Yes, someone has certainly inspired them,' she mused. A cool breeze blew and she pulled her shawl across her chest and her stiffening nipples.



The minutes crawled by as the boys waited for their Latin class.

'Where is she?'

'Do you think she has left the school?'

'Too embarrassed to come. It's the last we'll see of her.'

'She must be coming, surely?'

Suddenly the door opened and Mrs Lane walked in calmly, buttoned to the neck as always.

'Good morning, class,' she said.

'Good morning, Mrs Lane!' they replied in perfect unison.

'Would you all open your books to...'

She saw they all had their History of the Pelopponesian War open at p. 55.

'Most efficient,' she said. 'Then let us begin. You may recall that the Spartans...'

Lavender put his hand up.

'Excuse me, miss, but aren't you late?'

'I wondered if any of you would notice. What of it, Mr Lavender?'

'Well, miss, the rules state that it's one stroke of the cane for each minute you are late.'

'I see. Let's see if all that practice on the tree yesterday has paid off. I'm expecting to be disciplined firmly. How many minutes was I late, Mr Lavender?'

'F...fourteen...I think,' he stuttered.

'Let's make it fifteen just to be on the safe side,' said Mrs Lane. 'Well, boys, you had better stand around and watch my punishment carefully.'

Her pupils stood up and formed an expectant semicircle around their teacher - a beautiful, elegantly-clothed, respectable, fully-grown woman surrounded by a gang of boys.

'Now, whose turn is it to spank me?' she asked with a smile as she slowly began to unbutton her top.