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Saturday, February 25, 2023

Marie-Chantal in Scotland, part 2

Next day, was about my school uniform. Mrs. McTavish didn't want to be bothered with having to park the family's Jaguar in the busy streets of downtown Edinburgh. She ordered a taxi. It was one of those black cabs. It reminded me of a school visit to London, two years ago. We sat in the back. Contrary to her longish skirt, our minis didn't cover our knees. Mrs. McT didn't object. I guessed she understands how girls our age enjoy showing our legs.

She told the driver to take us to Aitken & Niven. He said, "Yes Ma'am, to Stevensons, on our way." I gathered that it is like in France, there's two names for everything, the old one and the new one. It was a modern building, but the lettering on the door said, "School Uniforms since 1905."

Mrs. McTavish told the first attendant we met. "It is about kitting this young lady who is to be a 6th former at Saint Mary." We were led to the seniors' department, where an older lady welcomed us with. "From top to bottom, Ma'am?"

Mrs. McT nodded, "Yes, please."

The lady said, "Let's start with a lovely boater." When I saw myself with that horrible thing, I was down a few pegs. The boater! The epitome of British schoolgirl status. I couldn't help pulling a face, and Margaret giggled as she was trying one as well.

Next was the fitting room for taking off my blouse to try a very plain white bra. Mrs. McTavish asked, "Ready?"

She didn't wait for an answer, and opened the curtain. I retreated in the back of the cubicle with quite a blush. In front of Margaret and the old attendant, she tugged my uniform bra up and down, left and right. She was eventually satisfied. "Phew!"

The blouse followed, and Margaret showed me how to tie my school tie. The curtain was still opened, when Mrs. McT told me to take off my mini. I hastily closed it, but it was reopened a second later for her to hand me a school skirt. I blushed crimson as I held that tartan skirt in front of my knickers with one hand, and closed the curtain with the other.

I was next told to step out of the fitting room, and to stand in front of the tall mirror. I saw the skirt was well above my knees, although it wasn't a mini. I nonetheless felt taken down another peg with the knee socks and the white blouse with the school tie.

After having tried the black brogues, it was the school crested navy blazer. It fitted well. The senior's attendant knew her job. Margaret had the boater back on my head with a teasing smile. I just about didn't recognize myself in the mirror.

I whispered, "Oh merde, me voila de retour à l'école !" I should have been more discreet. Mrs. McTavish heard, and said out loud in perfect French, "Marie-Chantal, c'est quoi ce language de poissonnière!?"

I blubbered, "I am very sorry Ma'am."

She added, "When back home I will teach you about proper language."

I immediately understood how I would be taught that lesson. I had no doubt that the old attendant understood as well. I blushed to my ears. I couldn't blush any redder when seven pairs of white schoolgirl cotton knickers were added into the big bag with spare uniforms.

While I changed back into my mini and civvies, Margaret was told to call back our taxi with her cellphone. I was quite subdued for the ride back home.

Mrs McT looked stern as she took off her very elegant hat, and dropped her handbag on the commode of the entrance hall. Then she told Margaret, "Please bring me your hairbrush."

I sheepishly watched Mrs. McTavish, thanking her daughter for the hairbrush, and sitting on one of the tall chairs of the dining room.

Then she grabbed my left wrist and gently pulled me across her lap. Papa or Maman had never pulled me over their knees. I was red face as I laid across her lap as a little girl about to be spanked. She pulled my miniskirt up and I couldn't help letting out a pitiful. "Oh!"

Then she lowered my lacy knickers, and my right arm flew back to try to catch them, while I had a more pitiful. "S'il vous plait, ne me baisser pas la culotte !"

She ignored my plea, grabbed my arm and folded it into the small of my back, while taking my knickers down to my knees. With my bottom bared, I felt all the way down my little ladder.

Then she started spanking me with her hand. I thought that she spanked slowly. It was silly, because I couldn't compare with any previous spankings. I felt my bottom heating up till it was burning, and my legs rhythmically tap danced with her fiery smacks. She stopped, and I was sniffling.

I saw her pick up the hairbrush, and soon felt the difference, my nates were tanned. I got twelve whacks and cried while pedaling my legs. Suddenly it was over. She helped me up, and my hands flew to rub my fiery bottom.

She immediately pulled me back over her knees. She again smacked my derriere with that horrid hairbrush. She lectured me, and punctuated every word with severe whacks. "You, SMACK! are, SMACK! not, SMACK! to, SMACK! rub, SMACK! till, SMACK! allowed, SMACK!"

She again helped me up. "Hands on your head, and go stand in that corner." She followed me, and rolled up my skirt to expose my blazing bum. I was sniffling in the corner. At nineteen, I had received la fessée cul nu comme une petite pisseuse, and in front of my new friend.

Marie-Chantal and Margaret

To be continued...

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./.

Furthermore our friend Asa from

Spanking Emporium

has published part one of our latest story

Aunt Roberta

./.

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Friday, February 24, 2023

Before rubbing

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Thursday, February 23, 2023

Rubbing

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Sunday, February 19, 2023

Marie-Chantal in Scotland, part 1

At eighteen, I barely had my French baccalaureate, and failed the entrance exams of two business schools. I worked a year as a bank teller, thanks to Papa, and hated it. I asked to see the bank's career counselor, and was told that with a literature baccalaureate without honors, my only hope to join a business school was to be multilingual with English and German.

Papa said that I should start with English. With help from his friends at the bank's international desk, he contacted British partners. They introduced a colleague's family wiling to take me for a year. Dear Papa announced they are Scottish, and he flew early in the morning to meet them. When he returned late in the evening he was enthusiastic.

"They have a daughter your age, and you will take the A-levels in the same class and school as her."

Maman helped to kit me up. A few days later, they both drove their little bird to Orly's airport. Papa gave me an envelope. "For pocket money and buying a bike."

I hugged them with brimming eyes.

I landed at Edinburgh. Mr. and Mrs. McTavish and Margaret, their daughter, warmly welcomed me. Mrs. Mc T seemed to have a frown. It was very discreet, as if she didn't like something about me.

Their Jaguar had leather seats, but so did Papa's Peugeot. Their house was even more impressive than Papa had mentioned.

Margaret showed me my room. It was superb. I had a great view of the park surrounding Edinburgh's castle. I couldn't help blushing when she said, "You best wear a skirt. Mom doesn't like girls to dress like truckers."

I understood why she had a frown when she first saw me; it was my jeans. I changed into a cord miniskirt, and made sure that it wasn't shorter than the one of my new friend.

Their dining room, like their lounge, was superb, with traditional furniture and Persian rugs. We had a great dinner prepared by Margaret's mother. There was wine on the table, but Margaret didn't touch it, and I wasn't offered any. I guessed that, in their book, nineteen is too young to be allowed to drink. I also noticed how their daughter, although cheerful and chatty, was very respectful of her parents.

They made me feel very welcome and said that my English was quite good. "Within a year you will be bilingual."

I felt wearied by my long day of travelling and asked to be excused. I retired to the lovely bedroom they gave me. I unpacked my suitcase, messaged my parents with my tablet pc, and changed into my night dress for reading in bed.

I could hear the distant sound of the television, and from what seemed another room, I heard Margaret's father. I couldn't understand what he was saying, but his voice was quite stern. I guessed he was addressing Margaret, although she was almost inaudible. Soon after a short silence, I heard a sharp smacking sound immediately followed by a squealing "Oh!"

I was quite surprised. Could it be that her father had slapped her?

I pricked up my ears and heard, "Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!" followed by "Ah! Argh! Ouch! Aie!" Margaret's shrieks grew louder and louder as the smacks were adding up.

Although I had never received more than occasional hand smacks to my legs from Maman, I understood Margaret was being punished by her father. I counted twenty smacks, but I hadn't counted from the first one.

Next morning Margaret was as cheerful as the day before, but she sat carefully and at time even wriggled into her chair. She saw me eyeing a large mahogany hairbrush on a nearby commode. She hurriedly picked it up, and ran upstairs. I had no doubt that she was spanked with that hairbrush.

After a generous Scottish breakfast, Margaret was told to take me to the bicycle shop, so I could buy a bike for riding to our school.

The young attendant was quite cute, and he must have noticed my accent, since he said, "Mam'zelle you should also buy a helmet. They are now mandatory."

I agreed and asked him to recommend a bike lock.

Next, we tested my new bike by riding about the castle's park. We stopped at the Beehive Inn and sat outside.

I asked about Scottish beer, and Margaret said, "Pop and Mom don't want us to drink."

I did raise an eyebrow when she had said 'us.' I ordered tea.

I would have loved to ask her about the spanking of the night before, but I didn't. I figured she would be quite embarrassed to have to admit that she was spanked.

Instead, I asked her to tell me about our school and the A-levels we were to prepare for the coming year.

"Last night your mother said that she will take me to a school uniform shop. What about that uniform?"

"It's a navy blazer with school crest, white long sleeve blouse, school tie, tartan pleated skirt, grey knee-high socks and black brogues."

"Ah!" The thought of that schoolgirl uniform already brought me down a peg.

She cheered me. "Hey, don't worry. You won't be the only nineteen-year-old wearing it, and two girls in our class are twenty. They will also wear it."

We were back home for lunch. Mrs. McTavish introduced Dorothy, her maid. We exchanged polite greetings. I had difficulties understanding her heavy accent. We had lunch, and I discovered it wasn't the main meal of the day. I understood why we had such a great breakfast.

Marie-Chantal and Margaret

To be continued...

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