The girls

They’d been quiet. So quiet, knowing the risks.

The older girl had taken control. She, after all, had done this before. Nervous, tentative touches had given way, once that unspoken decision had been taken, to mouths and fingers and bare flesh. And pleasure, and pain, so merrily and momentarily inflicted‎, then pleasure again.

One orgasm. Two. Begging for, and being granted, the third.

The walk back down to her own study-bedroom had been fraught, for being caught at that early hour would have inevitable consequences that she dreaded, avoided for nigh on two years at St Mary’s. But the coast remained thankfully clear.

She slipped into her room, heart pounding. Closed the door, flicked on the light.

And saw the handwritten card on the bed, bearing the head prefect’s name. ‎”You understand that being away from your room so long after lights-out is strictly against school rules. Report to my study in your pyjamas and dressing gown at 7.30am to be beaten.”

—

Not that said garments were required, it seemed, as she bent over naked to touch her toes. Six strokes, doubled to twelve for refusing to reveal the other girl’s name. Increased to fifteen, sixteen, she couldn’t by the end tell, for those moments w‎hen she disgraced herself by being unable to take the searing strokes like a good girl.

Facing the corner afterwards, hands on head so unable to wipe away the tears. Hearing the knock on the door. Hearing, to her mortification: “Come in.”

Hearing the other person entering the room, closing the door.

Hearing *her* voice. “I told you she was pretty, and that she would stripe nicely. Now: which of us do you intend to fuck first: me or our new toy?”