Victoriana part 1

The dream had taken me back in time, Daddy had pulled me over his knees, raised my pleated school skirt, pulled my knickers deep into my valleys and vigorously spanked my bare bum.

I had a long cooling shower before getting dressed for my day at the bank.

After a short bike ride to the nearby market town the tellers of the local Barclay Bank greeted me with courteous, "Good morning Miss Alicia!" I returned their greetings with a warm smile. They again seemed to compete as to whom would wear the shortest miniskirt. At 22, only a few of years older, I would have loved to join the competition, but I am their supervisor.

I dropped my bag on my desk and climbed the stairs to poke my head into the office of the manager's secretary. As usual she was having coffee with the deputy manager. I was offered a cup. A few minutes later we were joined by our manager. He poured himself a cup and point blank questioned me, "How's your French Alicia?"

"Average... Sir."

"You are due a promotion and London is offering the position of deputy manager of the Calais branch."

"You would have a leave to beef up your French. Your language coach or whatever program would be paid by the bank. You have a week to think about it."

On the way back home I was milling over that proposition and almost missed the opening of a newly renovated shop. A rare occurrence with the local supermarket having killed most of the small shops of our residential suburb.

The name and the purpose was interesting, Victoriana Vintage Fashion and Haberdashery. I attached my bike to a nearby lamppost and examined the window. There was of course plenty of haberdashery supplies and a strange mix of dress patterns from the 70s  and a number of Enid Blyton's books. I also spotted inside the shop a mannequin dressed with a lovely tartan pinafore.

 

I pushed the door, a small bell chimed, I was welcomed by a middle aged lady behind a very modern sewing machine. After a polite exchange I asked if I could have a look around. "By all means! Please don't mind me, I already have plenty of work."

The shop was set up so that visitors could browse without being under the eyes of its owner. I could discreetly satisfy my curiosity. The tag on the pinafore read, 'Made to measure, £107' That wasn't cheap! There was a wooden bookcase with more books by Enid Blyton and an assortment of school like cotton knickers and woolly knee high socks. Several clothes racks offered a selection of dresses and skirts similar to those pictured by the patterns in the window. Most tags read, "Made to measure, please ask for a quote."

Those dresses and skirts weren't as short as those of my bank tellers, it was only the fashion of the 70s, the start of the miniskirt revolution. I suddenly remembered my first mini, Mom had smacked my thighs, "Now you have a choice, wear that brazen skirt showing that you were spanked or wear a proper one!"

I did wear it a few years later when they retired by the sea after having sold their business. I did also wear it at the bank as it isn't too short contrary to Mom's ideas.

I spotted a cute set of a short tartan pleated skirt with a white long sleeve blouse and a black sleeveless sweater. The tag said that it came with white cotton knickers and knee high socks for £70. Somehow it reminded me of my old school uniform. Although I didn't know if I will ever dare wear it, I tried it on. The stretch waist was an easy fit, and the lady asked how short I want the skirt, "Not to short please."

I collected it Thursday late afternoon on the way back home. I tried the skirt on. I loved that it was quite short without being too short. It felt flirty. I imagined testing it on a few dishy guys at the local coffee shop. I again remembered Mom having smacked my thighs.

Then I was surprised to find a small leaflet in the pocket within the waist band.

"Would you like to learn French ?

Old fashioned method

Guarantied results !"

There was no address, no telephone number, nothing. With the Calais offer in the back of my mind, and the intriguing promise of guarantied results I was very curious! I returned to the shop to show that leaflet to the seamstress and she gave me a card,

Ecole Ecarlate 

Enseignement tradionnel du français

 Birchwood Manor

Upper Switchingham

There was an address and no telephone number. I didn't know that manor, but I knew the picturesque village. With a beguiling smile the old lady said, "You already have the uniform." I raised both eyebrows, and she added with a somewhat admonishing tone, "Be sure to wear it when visiting."

Alicia

To be continued...

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Playing hide and seek in the woods and being found...

 

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Ballet lessons...

 

Drawing from our friend Kalidwen

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Whippingham Fitness Camp part 6

I had done well with my weight loss program. I only had two more pounds to shed. There was salmon with sliced potatoes in a creamy Parmesan sauce, I felt I deserved a break. I reasoned, its Saturday, and we weren't weighted on Sunday. I didn't resist a second helping.

I could have more or less remained on track, maybe earn no more than an embarrassing bare bottom spanking, but in for a penny in for a pound. The dark chocolate mousse was devilishly tempting, and I surrendered. June watched me spooning it with saucer like eyes. On Sunday I was kinda worried about my indulgence, and ran a few extra miles on the treadmill.

Monday morning for the weighing ceremony the verdict was terrible. "April, you have regained two pounds. You are taking off your buruma, and going to cut a couple of switches."

A few girls, who had seen me with envy spooning that rich, dark, scrumptious chocolate mousse, giggled as I was taking off my buruma.

A switching was the ultimate deterrent.

With a blush, I exchanged my gym knickers for a pair of shears. With nothing more than my curls, I stepped out of the mansion to cut a couple of switches, from the well known shrub. I couldn't help feeling my cheeks burning with embarrassment when more girls teased me.

I selected my two switches, and sat on cold paving stones to clean the leaves off. With butterflies fluttering in my tummy, I reflected on the price, I was going to pay for my silly indulgence. I already felt sorry for myself.

In front of the mansion with everyone watching our coach ordered me to grab my knees, and she switched my bum and upper thighs. It was sizzling streaks of fire. "OH! AH! AIE! OUCH!"

It was even more severe than the welcome strapping I got from Miss Principal. It was searing, scorching, incandescent, with zippy sounds instead of resounding whacks. I stammered as I promised. "OH! AH! OUCH! OUCH! I am very sorry Miss. Sniff! I will be back on my diet. Sniff! I promise. Sniff!"

She gave me back my buruma, and there was no time for after spanking treatment from my friends. Next was the morning run on the beach. I ran with my streaked buns and thighs. The usual joggers were there, and they cheered.

I would never again forget my diet, even after having left Whippingham! A few days later, I had lost all of my extra weight, and I was as fit as a marathoner.

 

Epilogue

With June we retook our dance exams. The Academy's leotard couldn't hide the fading pattern of my switching. June teased. "The jury will never imagine that you were given a switching, for having stuffed your face with chocolate mousse!"

My answer to her teasing was non verbal. "Grgrgrgrgr!"

Modern dancing allows more freedom than ballet, and I had fun with the wheels and steps learned at Whippingham. I flew!

I got a 9.1 average from the judges. June got 9.2. We were congratulated by the jury for the best scores for a second chance, and offered a tall glass of champagne. We didn't have a second one!

The lady co-president the jury cheekily teased. "I have a feeling that you have been at Whippy." We both blushed crimson, but we proudly answered. "Yes Ma'am!" She smiled, and whispered. "It will be our secret!"

Later we emailed our Whippingham coaches and Miss Principal. "9.2 and 9.1, we are back on track! Thank you!"

April and June

 PS: There is for sure one Whippingham village, somewhere...

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Classroom capers

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Rubbing doesnt help much

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Whippingham Fitness Camp part 5

I had to admit that I did deserve that spanking at the hand of our nutritionist, but I wouldn't be called a chicken. I was, of course, mortified to have been punished, on the bare in front of the whole class, but it was a matter of honor. I am not a chicken! Later on, I was quite proud to have been given high five by my dorm-mates.

A few days later, we visited the boys of the local soccer team at their nearby training camp. Miss Principal announced. "You will be wearing your classroom uniform while travelling and you are to pack your sports bags."

With boys in the bargain, we didn't mind too much our shortish skirts. Our coaches handed each of us a pair of gym shorts. "We don't want the boys going gaga over your burumas."

The boys offered a warm and teasing welcome. A few girls giggled for pats on the back of their skirts, a few more slapped the enterprising hands. We changed into our sports uniforms with improved shorts. After a warming up drill, we were separated into two teams. I was happy to be in the same team as my friend June, and our dorm mates. Each team was organized by one of our coaches. A selection of boys was appointed as referees, others sat on the sidelines to enjoy the match.

Our captain was lucky to draw the first engagement, and we charged. As a forward outfielder, I had run ahead, hoping for a pass. When I got the ball, I successfully dribbled it by an opposing midfielder. The boys cheered. "Come on red head!" Next, I escaped a defender. The boys went wild. "Go for it red thighs!"

I didn't have time to blush for that comment, which was referring to Mr. Muesli having decorated my thighs for my impertinence. "Shoot it carrot head! Shoot!"

I shot, and the ball missed the goals by a mile! The boys jeered. "Spank her! On the bare! We want to see if her tuft matches her hairs!" I blushed at those comments, but I was more upset to have wasted a great opportunity.

As we were all quite fit, thanks to Whippingham's special program, it was a hard fought game. We did score one goal, but our opponents equaled that a few minutes later. Both coaches promised the belt for their team, if defeated.

In the last few minutes of the game, we were still tied, and facing an attack. As a front line player, I was in the middle of the field ready for a counter attack. I couldn't see the details, but I heard the boys chanting. "It's a goal!" I wasn't the only one to imagine the impeding sting in our tails. A few were already instinctively rubbing the seat of their shorts.

While the other team and their coach were chanting, "We are the champions!" Our coach bellowed, "You're lucky that I won't be belting your butts in front of the boys!" A number of boys overheard and teasingly protested.

Back to our locker-room our coach pulled some kind of trestle in the middle of the room. "All of you, take off your shorts and knickers and line up!"

While we were taking off our shorts and knickers before lining up, our opponents, who were peering through the opened door, cheered. "Strip your clams!"

Miss Coach added. "Six of the very best with my trusty belt!"

Our captain was first to bend over that trestle. She had to be on tip toes to grab the lower rang. She couldn't help having to part her legs to keep her balance.

"As the captain, you're getting eight!"

She got the last two across the top of her thighs. With our short uniform skirt, she will have to be very careful to hide those vivid belt marks from the boys.

"April, you're next, and you're getting seven because of that sloppy shot!"

I couldn't help offering my girly secrets for the jeering opposing team. "Spread them wide red beaver!"

I was warned, "You will remember that last one, my girl!" Having said that, she vigorously whacked my thighs. "OH! AIE! AIE! AIE!"

Then I joined the already punished line up with both hands rubbing my well toasted buns. I no longer cared to be showing my curls. 

After having changed into my uniform skirt, I tugged it as far down as it would go. As we walked out of the boys' clubhouse, I suddenly felt a cooling draft for my fiery nates. Some imp had raised my skirt, or was it the wind?

I twirled on the spot and slapped the closest boy. He protested, "Hey! Ouch! It wasn't me."

"Sorry!"

I scanned all the smiling boys and couldn't spot the culprit. From their wide grins, I could tell that they had an eyeful. I again blushed as they commented.

"That's a lovely red bum!”

“It’s quite fitting for a red head!"

I shrugged and noticed that I had slapped one of the best looking boys.

April and June

To be continued...

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