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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