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Matron's Revenge

by Pushkin

Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 15 Dec 2012


“Furball, why are you being so nice to Skinbag these days? You used to give her a really hard time.”

“Oh, I just got fed up with it. It's too easy to get her going and she's not worth it.”

12 year old George Catt, known to his friends as Furball for some reason that nobody could remember, declined to say more about why he had changed his attitude to Matron Skinner, known to the boys variously as Skinbag or Skinhag. But now you are going to hear the real reason.....

*****************************

“Well now, Catt, we are all alone for the rest of the morning and afternoon, and you are going to learn a lesson you will never forget.”

Matron Skinner and George were standing at the window of her sitting room, high up on the second floor of the country mansion that was St. Swithun's Preparatory School for Boys. They were watching two coaches making their way down the drive, containing every other member of the school community. It was the annual summer treat – a picnic lunch at the Devil's Dyke followed by the funfair and a dip in the sea at Eastbourne.

George was the only boy left behind, and this was a punishment for his repeatedly being in trouble for this, that and everything else. He was not really wicked or nasty, just far too high-spirited and mischievous for his own good. He was a pleasant looking boy, with a useful brain and an active body, good at all games despite being on the small side, and he would have been more popular with the other boys if he wasn't continually landing them all in trouble because of his tricks. Even so, he was a general object of admiration because of his devil-may-care attitude to authority.

He was no stranger to the headmaster's hairbrush, but he didn't seem to mind it, whether it was on his underpants or with them down round his ankles, and he took great delight in showing off the red circles on his bottom to the other boys afterwards. The headmaster, in despair, had even given him the cane on three occasions, but that was a mistake because it only caused the other boys to admire and hold him in awe more than ever. He was intensely proud of his stripes, and he even profited from them, charging sweets and fruit from the other boys in return for their feeling the lines on his bottom – a process he enjoyed anyway, for he was at the onset of puberty and he was starting to discover the joys of sex.

Now, however, he was in sober, even sombre, mood. He had made fun of Matron too often to be in any doubt that she intended to exact full revenge, now that they were alone and she had him in her power. The headmaster had made it clear to both of them that George was absolutely under her control, and that if he did not receive a good report on their return from the outing George's parents would be asked to come and remove him from the school. This George definitely did not want. He enjoyed life at St. Swithun's far too much.

“If you have any nonsense from him, Matron, you have my full authority to punish him in any way you think fit, and he will have me to deal with on my return as well.” Those had been the headmaster's parting words. As they left the headmaster's study she had tweaked his ear painfully and hissed, “You heard that? In any way I think fit.”

“Right, Catt,” she said, as the second coach disappeared from view, “in return for all the trouble you have been causing to everybody, and for your rudeness to me yesterday, I intend to make life as unpleasant for you as possible. You evidently enjoyed your bath last night, judging by the mess you made throwing sponges everywhere. Let us see whether you enjoy another one as much. Come with me.”

She led the way from her sitting room, into the boys' washroom next door with its dozen handbasins, and through the door adjoining which led to a room with two baths in it. She turned on the cold tap of one of them and the water gushed in until it was six inches deep.

“Get undressed,” she said. “It's a cold bath for you, to see if that will cool you down.”

With a sigh, cooperating with the inevitable, the boy took his clothes off. It didn't take long, because summer wear consisted of just three items of clothing apart from sandals – Aertex shirt, fawn coloured cotton shorts with an elastic waist, and white cotton briefs. It was a hot day, and threatening to become hotter.

With grim satisfaction, Matron surveyed the naked boy, the straggly hairs sprouting around his groin proclaiming that he was no longer a boy but not yet a man, and the six round circles on his bottom, now turned blue, the penalty for the skylarks of the previous evening.

“I see you got what you deserved last night. Get in,” she said, and as he stepped over the edge of the bath she saw that his testicles (pesticles, she called them) had well and truly descended. She picked up his underpants and peered at them, disappointed to find no telltale marks on them.

“Up to your neck.”

He lay down and gasped as the cold water had its effect, making his penis shrivel to a little cockleshell. Like all the boys at St Swithun's, he was well used to Matron seeing him in the nude.

“Now stand up and soap yourself, all over. The middle as well – underneath and round at the front. And do it properly, unless you want me to do it for you.”

Normally the Matron left the older boys to bath themselves unsupervised. Having her standing there watching him was making him feel uncomfortable, and his cock began to respond. But anything was better than having her soap him and pushing her finger up his bottom, so he did it himself. He dived back under the water to rinse off, climbed out of the bath and took the towel she proffered him. Vigorously he rubbed himself dry.

“Here.” She gave him a cloth and told him to dry the floor with it. Not a big deal normally, but embarrassing when you are doing it naked with a woman watching you.

He made to put on his clothes.

“Did I tell you to get dressed? No.”

She had in her hand the Tick Book, a small notebook with all the boys' names in it and with a pencil tied to it, so called because every boy, after breakfast, had to go to the 'bogs' and then record in it whether or not he had been successful in moving his bowels. This was not easy, school food being so stodgy.

“I see you haven't done your duty for the past two days,” she said, employing her usual euphemism. The boys had more earthy names for it. She unlocked a medicine cupboard. George could see a length of rubber tubing in it and he thought, Oh no, not that! He knew what it was for. Fortunately she took out a bottle of California Syrup of Figs instead and poured a large dose of it into a dessert spoon, followed by another of the same. George pulled a face but it was not that bad – better than being made to sit on a toilet bowl until he was purple in the face or having that tube stuck up his bottom.

Of course, he could have done what many boys did, and that is ticked the book whether they had 'been' or not. But one of the many things to be said in favour of George, because he was actually a very likeable boy, was that he never told a lie. He always cheerfully owned up to his pranks and wrongdoings, ready to take his medicine with a smile. The headmaster actually had a soft spot for him, especially when George was presenting his soft spot for attention. Even the masters and staff whose lives he plagued had a soft spot for him. All except Matron Skinner, that is.

She felt that the headmaster was far too soft on the boy. Since the hairbrush seemed to have no effect on him, she considered that he needed to be caned, often and hard. And if that didn't work, he needed to be humiliated, because boys hate to be laughed at or made to feel small. And she knew full well that when a boy begins to grow pubic hair this is a source of embarrassment and awkwardness to him as well as pride, and she intended to take full advantage of it.

“Can I get dressed now, Matron?” he said.

“No,” she said. “It's a hot day and you'll do very nicely as you are. There's nobody here to see you except me. Even the kitchen staff have been given a half day off. You can put your underpants on but that is all.”

Normally he would have argued, but he knew that in the circumstances he was beaten – and very likely was going to be beaten as well. The thought made his cock start to tingle and he hoped desperately that he would not get a stiffy in front of her. Luckily it only swelled a little.

“We are going to the music room,” she said, and George's heart sank once more. He hated the lessons he had every week when Miss Britten, the piano teacher, visited the school. He dodged the daily practice period whenever he could, or he merely doodled around, playing by ear.

Matron found George's music book, opened it at a piece dated three weeks earlier, and told him to play it. He hadn't bothered to even try to learn it and of course he made a hash of it.

“I thought as much,” said Matron, when he had broken down for the umpteenth time. “Do you realise your parents are paying good money for you to be taught by one of the finest teachers in the country, and you are simply wasting your opportunity?”

[Miss Britten was a spectacularly ugly woman who claimed some obscure connection with Benjamin Britten, but that did not make her a good teacher, and she bored the pants off her pupils.]

“If you won't learn your lesson you're going to get one from me. You deserve a good spanking and that's what you're going to get. Take those pants off and get over my knee.”

George stared her defiantly in the eye.

“Or perhaps you'd prefer the headmaster's cane.”

He wasn't sure whether she meant she would give it to him or the headmaster would on his return. She had, after all, been given permission to punish him in any way she thought fit. He decided that the indignity of being spanked like a little boy was marginally preferable to being caned. With a sigh he took down his pants and kicked them off, while Matron had already seated herself on a chair.

If you want an illustration of what happened next I cannot do better than refer you to Franco's excellent cartoon entitled 'Matron's Piano Lesson', in the boyzbeingboyz site, Gallery#1. George discovered that a woman's hand, if applied long and hard enough to a boy's bottom, can be just as painful as six smacks with a hairbrush.

When she had finished with him, Matron told him to spend half an hour practising the piece and then to report to her in her sitting room. When the time had elapsed he made his way upstairs to where, to his consternation, he found not only Matron but also another woman he had never seen before. They were sat down chatting over a cup of coffee.

“Ah, so this is the naughty boy who has had his bottom smacked?”

“Yes. Turn round, Catt, and show us.”

George felt totally ashamed to be seen naked by a stranger, because Matron had taken his pants away with her, so that he was actually relieved to be sent to stand in the corner, where the strange things happening to his cock could not be seen.

For some minutes they continued to talk about him, ignoring him. Matron said she would not hesitate to give him another smacking, or even the cane, if he again proved unsatisfactory.

“I hope he does,” said the other woman. “I should very much like to see a boy having his bottom whipped.”

Nice, thought George. Don't mind me! Just carry on talking about me and my bum as though I'm not here. Then he started to feel a queasy feeling in his tummy which had nothing to do with the anticipation of being caned. It was the syrup of figs taking effect.

We will draw a veil over the next few minutes. The only good thing about it, from George's point of view, was that he was allowed to go and do what he had to do in private and away from Matron's eagle eye. When he returned she told him to put his clothes on because they were going downstairs.

She led the way down to what was known as the Playroom. It was really a gymnasium, added on to the original building, with wallbars, Swedish bars, some ropes tucked away and the rest of the equipment stowed at the far end, leaving an open space for play when it was too wet or dark to go outside. Lined against the sides were the boys' tuckboxes, wooden chests in which they were allowed to keep their own possessions, and secured against theft by keys or padlocks. George's, with his name painted on the top in big black letters, had a combination padlock.

“Open it up,” said Matron, and that really set the alarm bells ringing.

“But, Matron, it's private. Mr. Milner never makes us open them!”

“I'm not Mr. Milner and he told you to do as I said. Open it!”

Now really afraid for the first time, George twiddled the numbers and unlocked the box. He hoped against hope that amongst the debris of personal trivia which was the state of the average twelve year old's treasure trove she would not find the thing which would spell his doom.

She did, after burrowing through the contents.

“What is this?” she said, holding it up triumphantly. The question was rhetorical. It was a packet of ten Woodbine cigarettes, the cheapest on the market. George had bought it in the holidays from a tobacconist who did not scruple to sell to youngsters. He had tried one, choked on it, then put the packet away in his tuckbox, where it had remained until that moment. He had not even tried to show it off to the other boys, knowing that if it ever came to light he might well be expelled from the school.

He tried to explain but his words were waved aside.

“This is the end for you, Master Catt! You are an absolute menace – a danger to the other boys and a thoroughly bad influence. You're going to have a very sore bottom when Mr. Milner returns, and then tomorrow you will be gone, and good riddance!”

Please, Matron.....” With real tears in his eyes George began to plead.....

**********************

Let us pause here to delve into the minds of the three protagonists.

George knew that he was in for a caning when the headmaster returned. That was for sure, but he could cope with it. The threat of expulsion had been a real one, however, and he was desperate to remain. Somehow he must persuade Matron not to mention the cigarettes. And even as he stood in front of the two women, effectively begging for mercy and seeing none in Matron Skinner's eyes, he realised that the only thing that could save him was his bottom. He had known instinctively that, for all her pretence of simply giving him his just rewards, she had enjoyed humiliating and spanking him in the music room. If he pleaded with her to punish him further before Mr. Milner returned, with the hint that she could do it whenever she wanted to in future, he might just get away with it.

He judged her well. Matron had no spanking rights over the boys, beyond an occasional swipe at a misbehaving bottom in the washroom, bathroom or dormitory. She had been at St. Swithun's for fourteen years and only once, six years previously, had she witnessed the headmaster using his hairbrush on the bare bottom of a boy in his study. It had aroused such strange feelings in her that she had always hoped it might happen again, but it never had. Now that she had George in her power she was experiencing those feelings again, enjoying them and determined to make the most of them while she had the opportunity.

As for the other woman, who rejoiced in the name of Miss Trimble, her part in this cameo is small but important. A soured elderly spinster, she had never before seen a boy naked, let alone one with a pink bottom. Much to her surprise it had excited her, and she now had an intense desire to see how a boy acquired it. She said as much to her friend, urging her on.

So, three minds with but a single thought. Back to the story.....

**************************

George concluded his heroic plea for mercy with a last throw of the dice.

“Couldn't you do it, Matron, I mean spank me, ever so hard, and then you wouldn't need to tell Mr. Milner about the cigarettes?”

Swallowing his considerable pride, he went on, “I promise I won't ever be naughty again, and if I am you can punish me any way you like. Please, Matron!”

“We....ell,” said Matron Skinner, with a great show of reluctance. “Perhaps I will give you one last chance. But it will depend very much on how you behave until everybody returns. And you must certainly be punished immediately for bringing cigarettes into the school. You know where the headmaster keeps his brush. Go and fetch it.”

As he was leaving she called out after him, “And bring a pen and paper as well.”

George made his way to the little storeroom next to the headmaster's study. It was full of the accumulated junk of years but it was also where Mr. Milner kept the dreaded hairbrush and where he sometimes took a boy to use it on his bottom. He found the brush sitting on a shelf. It was a novel experience to hold it by the handle and he gave himself a playful tap on the bottom with it. He knew it was going to hurt but he was confident that he could take whatever she did to him, and anything was better than expulsion. Besides, he knew from experience that once it was over and the immediate heat had subsided to a warm afterglow, he could sneak off for a quiet wank, with no problem of finding a suitable place in an entirely empty school.

Next he went to his classroom to fetch a pen and paper, wondering why she wanted it. When he arrived back at the Playroom he was surprised and concerned to find the two women dragging a gym horse away from its place against the wall. His fears were confirmed when he was told to remove his shorts and underpants and climb up onto the horse – not across the pommel but on it lengthwise, as though going for a ride. He ended up lying along its length, clasping its belly, with his legs forced wide apart searching for non-existent stirrups.

Oh my God, he thought, here's this total stranger staring at my arsehole! And Matron's going to do it on the soft parts between my cheeks, to make it hurt more. Oh well! At least the rumblings in my tummy have stopped for the time being. Grit your teeth and think of England!

Meanwhile Miss Trimble had been writing on the paper at Matron's dictation. She now placed it on the horse under George's nose. He pushed his head back and squinted at it. It read: I MUST NOT BRING CIGARETTES INTO SCHOOL. I AM A NAUGHTY BOY WHO DESERVES TO HAVE HIS BOTTOM SMACKED HARD.

“You are going to read those words out slowly, Catt, one at a time. Read the first one now.”

“I..” said George. There was an immediate crack and a fraction of a second later George realised that his punishment had started. The sound of it, in that large area of hard surfaces, was incredibly loud. It reverberated round the walls and ceiling.

“Next word,” said Matron. “MUST...” crack! – and as the brush landed on the other side of his bottom George knew, if he had been in any doubt before, that he was going to get a smack for every word written on the paper before him. The strange thing was that it was not hurting – much. More of a sting, really. She can't do it nearly as hard as the Head. Or maybe my bum is just getting used to it.

So thought George, though he began to change his mind as the Skinhag got into her stride and started to work on the soft inner parts of his cheeks which did not normally get hit. By the time he had reached the word AM and had received nine smacks his eyes were beginning to water. There was still a long way to go and he was going to have to summon up all his determination if he was to deny them the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

He was not helped by hearing the ghoulish Miss Trimble exclaim, “I love the way he tries to close his bottom every time you hit it!” Yeah, thought George, and I bet you love watching my arsehole screw up too. Well screw you, both of you!

He had started to leave a longer pause between each word and the next, but by the time he reached HIS BOTTOM SMACKED HARD all he wanted was to get it over with as quickly as possible. The light brown leather of the horse had dark spots on it where his eyes and nose were streaming, and he could not prevent himself from crying out at each of those last four strikes.

“Right!” she said, as he stiffly eased himself off the horse, still in agony. “Let that be a lesson to you. Now. You are to go to the library, choose a book, and spend the afternoon reading until they come back. You can forget about lunch. You can do without it. Off you go. Take your shorts, pants and sandals with you.”

And that was the last George saw of the two women during the long hours spent in the library. To ease the pain he still felt in those tender parts which had never been targeted before, he read standing up, immersing himself in The Last of the Mohicans.

He had put on his shorts and sandals, but the elastic of his briefs was too painful to bear and he stuffed them in his pocket after he had wiped his face clean with them. He left the library only once, to go and have a pee, and while he was there he twisted round and inspected himself in a mirror. He was surprised to see that, apart from six faint circles left over from yesterday, his bum looked normal. The painful red area between the cheeks could not be seen. His hopes of avoiding a caning from the headmaster faded.

He returned to the library where, to forget his hunger and thoughts of what more awaited him, he again lost himself in the machinations of Magua. At four o'clock he heard the sound of the coaches on the gravel outside, and five minutes later the building was full of its normal noises of high-spirited boys everywhere.

Without referring to Matron he went to join them, keen to find out how the day had gone. When his friends asked the same from him he prevaricated, without actually telling a lie. Naturally he was not going to go into details about the way Matron had humiliated him. One of them produced from his pocket a squashed corned beef sandwich, which he had pronounced inedible. George, in no mood to be fussy, wolfed it down.

It was only when they were all sat down at tea that he remembered that he had still not got his underpants on. He hoped nobody had X-ray eyes.

At the end of the meal, when he had said grace, Mr. Milner announced that he wanted to see Catt in his study straight afterwards. Trying to ignore the amused and eager looks of eighty pairs of eyes, George hurried to the bogs after they had filed out and quickly put on his briefs before making his way to the study.

Inside, as he had expected, were both the headmaster and Matron, a triumphant glint in her eye. The moment of truth had arrived – or, as George hoped, the moment of untruth.

“Has he behaved satisfactorily, Matron?”

“I am sorry to say he has not, Headmaster.”

“In what way?”

George drew a deep breath and held it. Behind his back the fingers of both hands were crossed.

“I found that he had been neglecting his piano practice disgracefully. But it was not that so much as his general manner, which I can only describe as impertinent and impudent, even though he did not actually disobey me.”

Both of them looked towards George in surprise as he gave an audible exhalation of breath.

Mr. Milner sighed. “You never learn, Catt, do you? Well, perhaps this will teach you to treat Matron with more respect.” He took his straight cane from its place on the mantelpiece.

“Six of the best, boy. Take your shorts and underpants down. Bend down and touch your toes. Do not stand up until I tell you to.”

The familiar routine was gone through. George kept his legs together and clenched his buttocks as much as he was allowed to. I will not describe what happened next in detail. One caning is much like another. Suffice it to say that George took it bravely and silently, the only sound being a sharp crack as each stroke met his bottom. Only his quivering legs indicated the pain he was suffering. Perhaps the Head did not do it quite as hard as he might have done, seeing the marks of the previous day's hairbrushing still in evidence. He had no wish to expel the boy. Indeed he rather enjoyed George's frequent visits to his study.

As Matron Skinner and George left the study together, sending boys who had crept close to listen fleeing in all directions, she took from the pocket of her uniform the packet of Woodbines and showed it to George.

“Well, young man, these are going back in my pocket, and you had better make sure they stay there, for good! From now on it is going to be no more George Catt, but Saint George Catt! Clear?”

George nodded, and for a brief moment they actually smiled at each other. An understanding had been reached.



If you enjoyed it, make sure you check out all the other stories by this author too!

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