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Justice Is Done

Pages: 1

Detective Schneider pushed the Polaroid picture across the desk toward Janet Finch. "Recognize her?" he asked, cocking his head. He watched as the thirtyish schoolteacher picked up the photo with shaking hands. He pursed his lips, suppressing the smile that threatened to break out. He glanced around his tiny cluttered office, then looked back at her. Miss Finch had lowered her face and was staring intently, but he could see she had blushed bright red.

"I . . . yes, well . . . I . . . uh . . ." she stammered, lost for words.

"One of yours, right?" Schneider said briskly.

"Yes," she sighed. "One of ours. I know her," she said with a sigh.

"And her name...?"

"Margaret. Margaret Wilson. Not local, ah, not southern I mean. As you'd guess . . . Parents from Connecticut, I think. But, I'm, well, shocked. I'd never have thought . . . well . . ." she shuddered, waving the photo in the air. "With black men too . . ."

"I'm sure. Not very ladylike either, is it? Not the kind of thing parents sending their daughters to your fine academy would expect . . .

but, well, girls will be girls . . ."

Rather angrily, Miss Finch said: "I can't be everywhere, all the time." A long sigh. A head teacher is busy, that's certain. But she still felt guilt about a wayward pupil like this. "I'm sorry. It's not your fault. I should thank you for telling me. But, what do you propose to do?

Will you want to arrest her? She's so young! Uh, what do you want *me* to do?"

Schneider gave a controlled smile.

"No, we won't arrest her. Not enough to go on, really. Associating with bad people isn't a crime in itself, and what she's doing here is, well, rather naughty, but really just a youthful indiscretion. In some states, though . . . Look, I hate it too, but these are the 1980s. But, there's plenty *you* could do, if you put your mind to it . . ."

Miss Finch looked at him. "You think I should confront her?

Discipline her, perhaps?"

"Exactly," Schneider said, sincerely. "And I'll give you our file on her, just in case there's any argument on her part about what you're talking to her about. How's that?"

Miss Finch stood up, shakily. "Accepted. Okay, I'll deal with this."

"One thing, then..." Schneider replied, reaching in his desk file drawer for a fat manila folder, and pushing it across the desk to her.


"Just tell me what the usual penalty would be for . . . this . . ."

"Ah . . . I don't know," Janet Finch said, shaking her head. "This is . . .well . . . a quite exceptional case . . ."

"But I'd be right in thinking it would be . . . physical? . .

.Something memorable . . .?"

"Oh, yes, definitely," Miss Finch replied, blushing slightly again.

She didn't feel like telling this plump, fiftyish policeman what had just crossed her mind. You're going to be damned sorry about this, Miss Dirty Habits Wilson, she vowed.

He wasn't about to let go. "Are your . . . procedures . . . uh, private? Or do you make an example of the girl in front of her classmates?"

He already knew the answer.

Miss Finch looked at him sharply. "The usual practice is for . . .

it . . . to, uh, be witnessed," she said quickly. "And sometimes, it's quite public."

"Oh? So, would *I* be allowed to witness it?" Schneider asked, managing not to sound teasing.

"No!! Absolutely not!" Miss Finch rejoindered, looking quite startled at the thought. "I mean, no, I don't think that would be, well .

. . proper. If you don't mind, that is?"

"I mind, but I think I understand. I don't want to spoil things.

But might I send one of my lady deputies? Just to be sure that justice is done?"

Outmaneuvered, she nodded. "By all means. And it will be."

His chosen deputy is Clara, his lover. A plain, almost dumpy brunette in her late twenties. Several times a week, she's in his office on her knees administering a blowjob, or is leaned back over this same desk, her skirt and blouse up round her armpits, while he ploughs patiently at her, in that 'one good shot' fashion of older guys. Career opportunities are what you make them, but the pair genuinely like each other.

And, though Miss Finch is not aware of the connection to Schneider -- not yet -- the amusing thing is that Clara is her own Saturday night love interest too. Clara's bisexual, reflecting that omnivorous taste that slightly overweight women tend to acquire. They met at some anti-drug bash sponsored by the mayor's office, and quickly recognized kindred spirits.

How many nights at the ratty Motel 69 out on the interstate cloverleaf had Janet unknowingly tasted Schneider's semen while kissing Clara's mouth, or dutifully licking her clitoris? He chuckled at the irony of it. And at the way that Clara had helped him set this whole thing up. Manipulating people was entertaining, any time. But setting up a rebellious teenage girl, an embryonic doper, and a snotty Yankee bitch at that, for a good humiliation, that was heaven. It was a combination of luck and cunning that had turned up this fine heap of evidence against la Wilson. But he would make the most of it.

His scheme, quite patient in its cunning: to get the young troublemaker punished as shamefully as could be contrived, to have Janet Finch use this new submissive relationship to seduce her soon, and then for her to deliver the girl to Clara's bed. In due course, the young slut would be his to plough, too. There was maybe even a chance of a foursome, which had him stiffening as he thought of it. Three juicy eager cunts, at his command . . .

Later that afternoon, Miss Finch sent a junior girl to summon Margaret Wilson to her study. She'd quickly gotten over her initial shock at the arrival of Clara Loudermilk. After all, how many deputy detectives could there be in this quiet Alabama backwater? Not many. She tells herself she ought to have guessed. They'd shaken hands politely at the school entrance, but had kissed rather passionately when the door closed on her office.

Janet told Clara that she had decided Margaret was to be given the choice of expulsion or a thoroughly good barebottom spanking. Not a daily common punishment at the academy, but known to the girls as the inevitable result of serious misbehavior, and not merely a last resort, either.

Clara had agreed this was a good starting place, but then reasoned with her, explaining how Margaret's offence justified the greatest severity. Miss Finch, turning a little pale with excitement, listened as Clara suggested how this should be done, gently touching her a couple of times as reinforcement. Of course, their own frenzied pillowtalk fantasies had primed Clara with plenty of ideas, and she had a good sense of what Janet could be persuaded to accept. They'd spoken about how wayward young girls need to be taught good manners, and discussed their own childhood memories and fantasies in prurient detail. Now, they both realized excitedly, the chance of making some of those fantasies come true was close to being realized. If only they stood firm. Before Margaret was summoned, they both vowed to each other that only the utmost severity would serve to educate her.

Margaret enters, rather shyly. She already guesses what the subject is, because she's already been confronted by her homeroom teacher about the lie about visiting her mother. She's told by Janet that they know where she really was, and that she better have a good explanation. Did they really know? She's determined to bluff them out, at first. Margaret is a small, elfin figure, no more than five foot one, with short black pageboy -style hair, a dancer's poise. She's pale and pretty, but her habits have given her some fairly pronounced bags under the eyes, a puffiness that talks loudly of late nights, smoking, boozing. And though she's soft-spoken and quiet, there's a pent-up energy, an anger, a rebellion that's quick to flare in her green eyes.

The interview goes quickly: In turn, they ask her to account for her movements the previous weekend. She sticks with her story about 'visiting her sick mother.' They snort their disbelief. Clara reads off a list of places and times, from some stakeout cop's report. Then, Clara produces several sheets of blurry, washed-out surveillance videocamera still pictures of her cavorting naked at a pool party at "a notorious local dopedealers' place." A picture of her disappearing indoors with a nude couple, her arms draped round both. All this, when she was allegedly visiting her sick mother.

It gets worse. The photos are rather vague and blurred. Not so a telephoto shots of her puffing on a fat spliff, or another one of her sucking just as happily on a guy's cock. And then there's the Polaroid.

She's amazed. Hadn't Andre taken that one, and promised to keep it safe?

Had he given it away? Left it laying around to be stolen? Bastard! It's a picture of her masturbating, squatting on a table, knees up round her shoulders, with a group of partygoers watching in semi-interest as she stretches her labia like chewing gum with one hand, plunges several fingers of the other deep into her vagina.

Margaret is stunned to have been caught out. She has no excuse.

She's told flatly: "Margaret, this blatant lying of yours is bad enough. But to have been caught in sexual activities as uncontrolled, as promiscuous, as . . . crazy as this, well, it's an expulsion offense, I'm afraid . . . . Frankly, it's also something that the police have shown an interest in. Because of your age, I mean . . ."

'Sgt. Bulldike,' as the girl thinks of her, is invited to comment, and drones on about the deviant lifestyle of her new friends, their criminal backgrounds, the parole status of several, the juvenile and adult record of her boyfriend Andre, which ranges from car theft to assault.

There are even some comments on their possible HIV status, from mixing with hookers and urban junkie types.

She's quite taken aback. She hadn't guessed how far out these people were. They just seemed like a bunch of groovers with similar funky tastes in this C&W whitebread town.

Margaret is not at all happy about the idea of expulsion. This isn't the first school where she's not fitted in. She'd been sent here because she'd been too crazy for one in New Jersey. And one in Illinois.

This vanilla-military-flavor Southern academy was the next choice, in the hope of calming her down.

"My parents will kill me," she says, half to herself, with flat resignation. "Ah. Maybe so. But you should have thought of that before,"

Clara intervenes.

A long pause, plenty of examination of cuticles, twiddling of fingers, sighs.

"You can only stay here if you promise to behave properly in future," Miss Finch finally said. "And, by that I mean impeccably. And, if you will demonstrate your sincerity by agreeing to submit to disciplinary procedures, now."

Margaret sees she doesn't have a choice. "Oh," she says, disbelieving what is happening to her. "I . . . well, I suppose . . . What are you going to do?"

"Whatever is appropriate, Miss Wilson. Is it 'Yes' or 'No'?"

"Yes, ma'am."

And that means? Margaret soon discovers the truth.

"Very well, young lady. On your feet. And get undressed."

Margaret is blushing as she stands. Should she protest? Why do they want her to undress?

Miss Finch isn't fooling about. She snaps her fingers. "Strip! Come on, get on with it."

Slowly, with an air of defeat, avoiding their eyes, Margaret strips, piling her clothes on a chair. She reveals long slim legs, a flat tummy, a nicely rounded feminine backside, despite all her exercising. And then, taking off her bra, small perfectly rounded breasts with pink nipples hardening in the cool air. And finally, dropping her cotton panties, a big tuft of tightly curled black pubic hair, covering a bulging mons. The two older women sneak glances at each other. They like what they see.

Now, she's interrogated about her sexual habits. Who has seen her nude? Who had she sucked, had sex with? Men, boys. Women, too? It's a long, long list. Some of the participants are quite close to home, too. Other girls, a since-departed French instructress. She's red-faced and incoherent by the time they're through asking. Since the list is so shocking, Miss Finch walks over and slaps her face, twice. And hard.

"You slut! You bitch! How dare you behave like that! You knew you'd be caught, eventually! Dragging the academy's name in the dirt!"

Margaret can't reply. She's tearful, apologetic.

She's told she'll have to get a blood test, and a full physical from the doctor when she visits next. Janet has her own file too. It's open, and she now comments that Margaret is a leading offender in other areas, too. Attitude, inappropriate dress, poor hygiene. There are 47 mentions for masturbation offenses, a half-dozen complaints about her ogling or touching other girls in the showers, several cases of being in possession of banned magazines, in a school where women's magazines are thought of as near-pornography. She's wriggling with embarrassment as these two women stare at her, in what seems total disgust. She's told to hold out her hands, palms up, and gets a few harsh strokes with the cane to punish her for being too free with her fingers.

Clara is asked for her handcuffs, and they're put on Margaret, locking her wrists behind her back to stop her covering herself. Clara gets up and opens the study door. Margaret is horrified. No, surely they're not taking her out!

Clara beckons, and Miss Finch gives her a push. "Move it. Follow Sergeant Loudermilk, please." Margaret has turned white. She can't move.

They grab her, and set off, determined expressions on their faces.

Margaret almost pees with fright, but holds on. She's escorted, completely nude, on a roundabout walk up and down the school corridors to the main assembly hall. The corridors are empty because classes are in, but a few girls on bathroom break burst into astonished laughter as they see the naked girl being frogmarched past. They tag along. The party stops at several doorways, and Margaret cowers back, out of view, as the classes are interrupted by Miss Finch, who asks the pupils to follow, to witness an exemplary punishment. She gathers up about fifty girls in all, who follow behind, chattering in excitement. They can see Margaret's bare back, and know she's totally nude.

A chorus of voices behind her. "Who is she? Oh, her! What did she do? No!! Really?! What's going to happen to her? A whipping!? Oh wow!


Some are shocked, some contemptuous, most are barely capable of suppressing their giggles of amusement when they see who it is. She's led up on stage, and is bent over and strapped down on the dreaded, leather-covered spanking stool. She's whimpering with fright now, but no one pays any attention. There's too much else of interest. Her legs are spread so there's about 30" between her knees, and her bare backside is facing the audience. She's giving them an excellent, uncensored view of her genitals, her pouting vulva perfectly framed in her thick bush, the bright pink fin of her clitoris. The pose is even opening the crease of her buttocks a little. "Girls who are guilty of sex offenses have lost the right to privacy or dignity," it's announced, as much for the benefit of others as for Margaret. After all, it's too late for her.

"Miss Wilson, who you all know, has been living under the misapprehension that the school's conduct rules don't apply to her," Miss Finch announces. "She has been caught lying, having sexual relationships with direputable boys, engaging in public nudity, abusing drugs . . . who knows what else? And her record until today has been very poor. So, we have only one choice, girls: to beat her severely."

Several canes, leather straps and wooden paddles are produced --

the favorite classroom implements of those teachers Miss Finch has invited -- plus some similar, well-proven items taken from the locked cupboard at the side of the stage.

Miss Finch takes up a paddle. She's going to start. But she's not the only one. She brings the paddle down on Margaret's bare backside with a noise like a rifle shot. Then gets down to serious business. The chosen items are used vigorously by teachers and form prefects in turn. It's not a mild punishment they have in mind, and no one makes any attempt to keep score. She tries to be stoic and suffer in silence, but they're not having that. Instead, she gets dozens, even scores of vicious strokes from each punisher in turn, ignoring her squeals and yelps and pleas, until her backside and upper thighs are crimson, swollen, bruised, welted, even bloodspeckled here and there, and she is emotionally drained . . . sobbing pitifully, almost hysterical.

All through this ordeal, Clara has had a camera out, and has been using it busily. After a quick trip to the forensic department's excellent photo lab, she'll have plenty to report back to Schneider tonight. His intense interest in the secrets of Margaret's body will be quite well satisfied, she's made sure of that. The photos and her breathless account of Margaret's ordeal will earn her an especially good fucking, she's sure.

When Miss Finch announces it's over, there are groans of disappointment, a few shouts for 'more' and finally a long round of appreciative applause.

Margaret is unstrapped and helped up. She can barely stand. She's told rather gleefully by Miss Finch: "Now, Miss Wilson, we have been rather easy on you today. But this only constitutes about half your punishment.

You must report after evening prayers on Sunday to make a public confession, and then to submit to a caning from all the members of your own class. After all, you have disgraced them, too. They will vote on how many strokes you deserve, but I hope it will be a suitably large number."

Excited laughter and whispering gives a clear confirmation that this is so.

"There may be other spankings, too, after we have had the opportunity to review the results of this one."

And then the final indignity. Miss Finch announces: "Since Miss Wilson so much wants to cavort in the nude, her clothing privileges have been rescinded until the end of the month."

Margaret gasps. That's three weeks away, at least!

Miss Finch continues: "And that doesn't just mean 'non schoolgirl apparel' privileges," meaning the school's concession to older girls that they can have stockings, proper bras, decent shoes. "No, it means ALL privileges. She'll stay as naked as this, until then." There's more laughter. "Indoors, outdoors, in class, in the gym, even in front of visitors if there are any. And it's expected she'll behave impeccably, because a series of senior girls will be assigned to watch her every second of the day and night, each armed with a studded belt to control her and dish out instant correction. If any of you wish to volunteer, see me at the end of the afternoon lessons."

Turning to Margaret she warns: "The slightest defiance, rudeness, lack of respect, and you'll earn a further week nude and another good thrashing. And I don't want to hear any more complaints about you masturbating or ogling other girls, you little pervert. Understand?"

Sobbing, Margaret is led back to the study, where Clara has left her bunch of car keys, and can undo the handcuffs. The policewoman takes the opportunity to check the girl's genitals with a friendly squeeze of her hand. They are rather damp and fragrant, inviting, even if she's not intensely, ready-to-come aroused. That's a learned response, Clara knows.

And she expects to be invited to closely follow progress as Margaret is taught it. Oh yes.

After Clara leaves, kissing Janet goodbye quite shamelessly, the teacher hugs the well-thrashed girl, staring into her teary eyes. There's a new attitude already, she decides. Janet gives a little smile of satisfaction as she feels Margaret push her hips against her. It's clear now to the teacher that a few weeks hence, their relationship will be quite different. This sluttish girl is ripe for a dike makeover, and certainly for bottom status, if the cards are played just right. She kisses her, and their tongues touch. Janet's fingers find Margaret's nipples. This is going to be quite easy, but it's going to be fun, she thinks to herself.

Margaret's hands don't try to block her as she slides her fingers down from her nipples to her belly, then between her thighs. Margaret goes to speak, she's blushing. But instead their mouths meet again.

Like Clara, Janet gives a little squeeze. Damp hair, definite warmth. A fingertip between the labia. Oh, wetness. And there's a delicious scent rising. Margaret anxiously whispers: "Miss? You won't hurt me anyone, please?"

Janet smiles warmly. "No more than you deserve, you dirty girl."

Pages: 1

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