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The Stories of Yvonne Sinclair

Alice And Anna
On The Beach
The Bisley Boy
Silk Stockings On A Ladder
A Merry Ferry Christmas
Stella and Fanny

The Story Of T

Arrival At The Institute

The Dominafuhrer

The New Recruit

The Sacred Feminine

The Sacred Feminine

Julia

An Introduction

VO Stories

Jenny
Miss Malcahy's Detention
Nine and a Half Hours

The Weight Loss
Programme

I Sign A Contract

The Convict

The Convict/My Prison Folder

Stories

65
A Caning By Miss Spiteful
Always On The Bare
A Visit To Greenwich
At My Lady's Pleasure
Ball Shackle Story
Charles
George
I Met Claire In A Coffee Shop
Judicial Bastinado
Kevin's Poem
Kim
Long Weekend
Long Weekend Conclusion
My Visit
Penitence
Plimsolls
Robin's Electrical Torture
Shoeshine Boy
Slave To The Cane
The Basement
The Colony
The Escape Artist
The Huntress Caning
The Language School
The Worm's View
Webb Encounters
Z

The Bossy Bank Women

A Judicial Punishment

The Valkyrie

Episode 1

Norseland

The Vision
The Agreement
First Blood

EXIT

EXIT THIS SITE

Miss Mulcahy's Detentions

"What are you in for?" asked Sandy of her neighbour, a dark-haired girl called Janet from the same class.

"Talking after lights out," Janet whispered. "And you?"

Sandy knew why she had been put in the detention book, but the real reason wasn't what was written down.

The fact was her form teacher had a 'thing' about her. And whenever Miss Mulcahy's turn to supervise detention came round, she found an excuse to put Sandy's name down. This time it had been walking with a slouch. "How many times have I told you to pull your shoulders back, Sandy?" she had said. "Come back on Tuesday night and I'll show you how. Remember to bring your mac and pumps."

Everybody had to bring their school macs and gymshoes to Miss Mulcahy's detentions. It was part of her 'No Nonsense' methods. For other teachers they would take a textbook and some paper and work for an hour in a classroom. For Miss Mulcahy it was a mac and plimsolls, and three hours would be spent in the gym.

Miss Mulcahy came into view. "March in, girls. You have two minutes to get changed. You know my rules. Strip down, and then put on your macs and gymshoes. Last one ready will stay an extra quarter of an hour."

Two and a quarter minutes later the girls stood in rows on the gym floor.

"Jumping astride, begin!" she commanded, and the girls began to jump their legs astride and together obediently. Miss Mulcahy went from girl to girl, making sure each was dressed properly.

A girl from 5A was in Miss Mulcahy's detention for the first time. The teacher stopped in front of her. "Jumping astride, Halt!" she said to the unfamiliar girl. "What's your name?"

"Alison Aron, Miss. 5A."

"And why are you being punished this afternoon?"

"Late for Assembly, Miss."

"I see. What should you do when you are late for Assembly, Alison?"

"Try and hurry up, Miss."

"Yes, Alison. You should run. Tonight we will teach you how to run, and you will not be late for Assembly again. Have you been in one of my detentions before?

"No, Miss."

"Have you dressed properly? - Let me see."

Miss Mulcahy lifted the hem of the girl's mac, and dropped it again.

"What were my instructions concerning dress, Alison?" The teacher asked, her voice degrees colder.

"To change into our macs and gymshoes, Miss."

"Did you hear me say you were to strip before putting on your other things?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Then why didn't you?"

"I did, Miss"

"Oh no you didn't, Alison. You still have on your knickers. Isn't that right?"

"I thought you meant just tunic and blouse, Miss," the girl whispered, her head down.

"So you have your brassiere on as well, do you?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Well now, Alison, you must learn to listen to what you are told. My instructions were perfectly clear and I shall have to punish you for disobeying them. You and I shall have a detention all to ourselves tomorrow evening. Report at four o'clock and be ready to stay till seven. For the present you will get properly dressed and stand on the rostrum with this placard so we can all learn from your mistake. Twenty seconds to get change! Run along!"

Fighting back tears, Alison ran into the changing room, pulled off her panties and unbuttoned her mac to get at her bra. She tore it off without getting out her arms, and feverishly rebuttoning, rushed back to Miss Mulcahy.

"You are properly prepared now?" she asked.

"Yes, Miss."

"Here is the placard then. Hold it up high above your head so we can all see."

On a long piece of cardboard, about nine inches wide, was printed the sentence "I am being punished for disobedience". Alison held it up.

"Right up as high as you can now. Stretch those arms! That's right. Now hold it there and stand up on the rostrum so we can all see it clearly."

The girl climbed the three steps at the back of the hall and turned to face the teacher.

"That's right. Now then class," she said, addressing the rest of the girls (who had been continuing with their jumping) "jumping astride, stop!" Thankfully, they stopped.

"Everyone face the back of the gym. Move!"

The girls turned to the rostrum, and to Alison holding aloft her banner.

"Alison disobeyed by not getting dressed properly. She is coming back for another detention tomorrow night. For now she is going to stand up there as a warning to us all. Are you sorry now Alison for what you did?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Very well. Class turn and face me. Move! Now stretch up with your arms and press down with your toes once, twice, three times. And up again" - Miss Mulcahy illustrated the movements - "and down once, twice, three times: and so on. Begin!"

The girls began their new exercise. Those who were inexperienced with Miss Mulcahy throwing themselves energetically into the routine, and those who knew better conserving their strength as much as they could. But even those who knew made sure they touched their toes on each occasion, for if you were caught skimping it would be an extra half hour, or even another whole detention.

A small voice from the rostrum made itself heard above the busy rustling of the girls' macs. "Please may I put this down now, Miss?"

A kind of suppressed gasp ran through the class, perfectly apprehensible in spite of the noise of their movements. Alison, it was abundantly clear, had spoken out of turn.

"Stretch up and press down, Stop!" Miss Mulcahy icily instructed the class. And then to the girl who had asked the question: "My dear, it is a cardinal rule of my detentions that girls don't speak unless they are spoken to. You carry on doing what you were told to do until you are told to stop. Janet! Fetch my cane. Sandy! To the rostrum please."

The teacher walked through the ranks to the rear. "Everyone turn about: Move!" she instructed, and mounted the platform.

"This silly girl," she told them, "has broken the rules once again. You know that almost invariably means another detention. Alison is perhaps an exception however since she has already received one extra punishment. I’m inclined therefore to be lenient, and to let her off with two strokes of the cane."

Janet handed the instrument to her.

"Turn and face the wall, you silly girl," Alison was told. "Sandy, you stand on the far side, and Janet, you stand here. I want you two girls to hold her mac up."

They took hold of the hem and pulled it up, as they had seen done several times before - the technique was well established with Miss Mulcahy.

"As high as it will go now. We all want to see."

Alison felt the eyes of the class on her. "Hold the banner up, Alison - no bending of the elbows. I shall now give you two strokes of my cane, with a count of three in between the strokes. You must keep quite still, or else you may get more. This is to teach you that girls in detention are not to speak unless spoken to. What is it to teach you?"

"Not to speak unless spoken to, Miss," Alison managed to get out, although her tiny voice was all but choked with tears.

"Good." Miss Mulcahy drew the cane back and swept it across the girl's bottom. The class drew in their breath in sympathy, and the placard in Alison's outstretched arms quivered. Almost immediately the cane whistled a second time: and now the poor girl cried out with the pain.

Sandy and Janet were told they could let the mac go, and it fell, covering the angry red marks that would trouble Alison for more than a few hours. When she was told to turn round, it was to reveal a face almost as red, and streaming eyes.

"Now perhaps the rest of us can get on with our exercises," said Miss Mulcahy. "Alison, you may watch, but keep still and hold your arms right up. That's right."

"The rest of you: stretch up and push down - one, two, three - begin!"

"Now where was I? We're very slow today. I think I had reached you Jane." She came over to where Jane was pushing down to her toes. "Stand still." Jane stood up "Are you properly dressed this week? Left your brassiere on one week, didn't you? Let me see."

Jane put her hands up to undo the top of her mac.

"To attention, Jane," Miss Mulcahy told her. "Arms to the side. I will carry out the inspection myself." And she undid the two buttons and pulled the black fabric aside.

This was something of a ritual procedure, since Jane had learnt her lesson well when, like Alison, she had put on her mac over her underwear and Miss Mulcahy had had her stand with the placard, and then attend a second detention as punishment. But the teacher obviously derived considerable enjoyment from the inspection.

As usual there was no illicit bra to be discovered, only Jane's little breasts, nipples pouting in embarrassment, running with the sweat induced by the exercise and the tightly buttoned raincoat.

Ever since the war, when school uniform had been specified with stringent economy in mind there had been almost annual attempts by other members of staff to introduce some re-styling; but Miss Mulcahy and a few others had resisted strenuously and for the most part successfully. Infuriating the more discerning of her colleagues, Miss Mulcahy was prepared to go to any lengths to keep the old designs and the old materials unchanged; and when it came to the question of the raincoat her efforts to oppose all modification became Herculean. And so it had remained as it was: cut in the military style that reflected its origins with epaulettes and wriststraps and strongly buckled belt, double yoked in front and behind. All this looked severe enough on a fourteen or fifteen year old; but it was the material the coat was made of that made the younger staff squirm: single-texture rubberised cotton, in navy.

The fact was of course, though she herself probably never realised it, Miss Mulcahy had a fetish for rubber, compounded with the sadism that is more usual in teachers, and her relaxation and fulfilment in life derived from having the girls in her charge dress up in their macs and perform at her command exhausting and painful physical exercises.

To some extent the others realised the true state of things but Miss Mulcahy was a well established senior figure in the school and there was a sense in which her activities fell well within the school tradition of tight discipline maintained by physical sanctions. It was commonplace for a girl to be sent on a run round the grounds for a misdemeanour, as it is at many schools. A session in the gym was not so very different, even if the girls did wear their macs.

Jane's was now buttoned up again, and Miss Mulcahy's detention continued in the accustomed way: for the chosen few, a very special ordeal; and a sustained, exhausting, painful régime of physical exercise for the rest. At seven they were allowed to march off to the changing room and shower, with the usual admonition that they should sponge down their macs and bring them for inspection the following day. Alison was reminded that she of course should bring her gymshoes as well, since she would be staying for her repeat session.

"Perhaps you'll remember to dress properly tomorrow," said the teacher brightly. " What do you do with your knickers?"

"Take them off, Miss."

"And what do you do with your brassiere?"

"Take it off, Miss."

"And what do you wear?"

"Just mac and gymshoes, Miss."

"That's right, Alison. I think you and I will get on famously after all. Don't forget to sponge your raincoat, now. We want you looking smart tomorrow."

"No, Miss," the wretched girl mumbled, before managing to slide away.

Miss Mulcahy called Sandy to one side as the rest were changing. "Would you like to be a prefect for me tomorrow," she asked, with an intimate tilt of the head. "To help when Alison reports for her punishment?"

Sandy's eyes sparkled as she accepted with alacrity. She and Miss Mulcahy enjoyed each other's company.

Their relationship had started when Sandy began to develop precociously way back in the third form. She had been the first in the class to turn into a sexual object for Miss Mulcahy, who was much moved by her innocent face and cropped hair, and her young breasts beginning to push out her school blouse. The girl found herself in detention time and time again, and once there she couldn't do anything right. Miss Mulcahy would have her back for private sessions in which she was subjected to a variety of experiences - experiences which struck her developing sexuality at a crucial period. Slowly but surely her emotions became attached to the stimulations her teacher brought to bear on her. She learnt to submit with a thrill to the discipline of wearing the punishment uniform which meant so much to Miss Mulcahy - cool against her nakedness at first, liquidly warm after five minutes. The vivid odour of the mackintosh material telling always as far as Sandy was concerned of constraint and humiliation.

This was just part of Sandy's initiation into the mysteries of the dark pleasures. She also learnt, for instance, to exult, as well as to suffer, as Miss Mulcahy forced her tired muscles to the point of exhaustion and beyond, to love as well as dread the cruel cut of the teacher's cane across the backs of her thighs, to find an extraordinary kind of peace as well as torturing discomfort in the chafing of the ropes or in the bite of the steel manacles and chains that were employed to hold her achingly immobile for long, long hours at a time.

They had a den, these two, in a cellar underneath the gym floor where the apparatus was stored. Miss Mulcahy had had a new lock fitted, and to the "punishment room", so secured, they had repaired, mistress and miscreant, on many occasions.

Now, once more, following Alison's misconduct, Sandy was again to report to the punishment room at the familiar hour. But her role was to be very different. Instead of having to drive her muscles to painful exhaustion, or submit with patience to the chains, or raise her mac and bend over for the breathtaking cut of Miss Mulcahy's cane, she was to help inflict these things on Alison: she was to be the agent of punishment, not its victim. She felt the thrill of an unknown pleasure in prospect.

"Mac and gymshoes as usual, Miss?" she asked.

"No, I think not," Miss Mulcahy replied. "Alison is the miscreant and she must dress accordingly. It would be quite wrong for you to have to wear the same. I shall provide you with a suitable uniform for your supervising duties. Come a little early if you can, so that we shall be fully prepared for Miss Aron."

"Yes, Miss. Miss - " the girl's voice trailed shyly off.

"Yes, Sandy? What is it?"

"Miss, I could provide the uniform myself, Miss." She blushed violently. "I mean ... I mean ..."

Miss Mulcahy could see the girl was to be encouraged. "Of course, my dear," she broke in hastily, "so long as you bring something - suitable."

Neither realised it, but now both hearts were wildly thumping.

When Miss Mulcahy opened the punishment room door to the girl at a quarter to four the following day, she found her half-conscious hopes abundantly fulfilled. For there stood Sandy, dressed in the mackintosh of her mistress' dreams. In bright scarlet, it came four and a half inches above the girl's young knees: high buttoned at the neck, tightly cinched in with a belt at the waist, yoked in front and behind. And on her legs, a pair of sparkling black rubber boots.

Miss Mulcahy weakly invited the girl in. Sandy walked shyly past the teacher and stood blushing in the middle of the little room, as though she had just stripped off for her lover. The teacher closed the door carefully.

"Ready for inspection, then," she said briskly, recovering herself a little and the girl, grateful for the familiar regime, brought herself to attention. With quivering fingers, Miss Mulcahy explored the girl's raincoat, thrilling to the feel of the cool, smooth, flexible fabric. She discovered that she was wearing it with nothing on underneath and thought it best to advise her to come fully clothed next time and change when she arrived: a pity - but surely there was something not quite right otherwise? It was different inside the gymnasium, of course...

"Good," she said, after buttoning up the top button so that the mac closed tightly round Sandy's neck once more. "A smart turnout. Now shall we prepare for Alison? When she first comes in you supervise her changing for me, will you? And then give her twenty minutes exercise. Try and make her really tired. Then if you get the horse and straps ready in the middle here she can ride that for her caning."

Sandy had pulled out the apparatus and assembled the wrist and ankle straps by the time the school clock struck four, and a timid knock on the door announced Alison's punctual arrival. Miss Mulcahy's assistant opened the door. Wearing her navy tunic and white blouse, Alison was carrying her mac neatly folded over her arm and her new tennis shoes in her hand.

"Come in," said Sandy authoritatively. "Go into that corner and take your clothes off. Then put on your mac and gymshoes like yesterday. You have one and a half minutes."

Alison hesitated a moment, looking uncertainly beyond her class mate where Miss Mulcahy sat behind her papers. "Get changed quick!" rapped out Sandy. "Miss Mulcahy says so."

Alison moved to the chair in the corner and took off her shoes. The new prefect put her hands on her hips and stood over her with her legs apart, in the manner of her mistress. "Quick!" she repeated. The girl to be punished pulled her tunic over her head and laid it over the back of the chair. She undid her blouse, took it off, slipped off her bra.

Miss Mulcahy peered eagerly from beneath her papers. Alison pulled down her panties, lifting each foot in turn to take them off. She dropped them on the chair. Then, with Miss Mulcahy's eyes at their brightest, the uncomfortable Miss Aron picked up what she had now to put on. With a momentary hesitation, which was itself gratifying to the spectator, Alison slipped her arms into the mackintosh, did up the buttons and buckled the belt.

These movements, performed simply, but with such genuine apprehension, meant a quite fresh pleasure to Miss Mulcahy, who found the diffident embarrassment of the new girl honed her feeling to an almost forgotten edge. It was the fruit of a charming naiveté that Sandy had of course rather grown out of. And as the session proceeded, the teacher became more and more taken with the new arrangement: Alison's little gasps, her cries and gentle sibs seemed so unstudied and expressive, and her girlish figure, belted and buttoned in her smart black mackintosh, so utterly perfect - and in the background there was the experienced Sandy, wonderfully smart too in her scarlet and black, putting the newcomer through her paces with confident expertise.

Unhappily, at any rate for Miss Mulcahy, the new arrangement was not to commend itself s warmly to the person it drew away from the centre of the stage. Sandy was heartbroken, and hopelessly enraged. Her supervisory duties, for one thing, failed to come up to expectations. Miss Mulcahy had educated her capacity to enjoy being the victim, and subjecting Alison to punishment - ordering her about, even applying the cane to her bottom as she lunged up and down on the horse - she discovered gave her little reward. Certainly it offered no kind of compensation for the loss of Miss Mulcahy's attention, a deprivation that poor Sandy could not really cope with.

The cauldron of emotion that the teacher had thus unwittingly concocted took no time at all to boil over. She arranged a second session between the three of them in a matter of days, and was so unaware of the turn she was provoking in Sandy's feelings that she suggested on that occasion that the new girl should be allowed to wear Sandy's spectacular red mac. Sandy consented in silent rage. But she took along her little camera, which she took pains to keep hidden, and recorded something of the proceedings.

Before another week had passed, Miss Mulcahy had been persuaded of the benefits of early retirement, and her remarkable detentions were at an end. At the very next staff meeting navy gaberdine gained approval as an alternative material for the girls' raincoats, and when the next term started hardly a black mac was to be seen. By the term following just one remained.

Ten years on the girl who had alone gone on wearing her old uniform, and who continued to do so to the end of her school days, still has it in her wardrobe, and still slips it on from time to time.

It's a bit tighter now, but so much the better. I do up the buttons right to the neck, buckle the belt tight round my waist, and with my hands thrust deep into the pockets, I move the smooth fabric against the tops of my thighs. Miss Mulcahy's naughty girl stares back at me from the mirror, and I begin again to dream of my act of betrayal: and of the endless punishments my mistress, had she so remained, would have without question found it her duty to impose.

END


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