All events in this story depict persons over the age of 18 at the time they transpired. It depicts spanking and related humiliation scenarios, including the recollection of an NC/reluctance event. BDSM is the closest category I could fit it to, but it’s entirely concerned with the memories and desires of two young women in relation to spanking. Comments are welcome but please consider these caveats if things like that bother you.

Emma was a shy girl. She was someone who had to try hard to make an impression and she found it exhausting. In a world full of pushy extroverts, she at all times seemed to be running up hill. She was five feet and two inches tall in her socks and convinced that everyone underestimated her because of it. She was as clever as you like, but her voice just didn’t seem to get heard. On top of that, she didn’t like her appearance very much, but making changes just seemed like so much work. She was pale skinned, and wore her mousey blonde hair in a long plait that at all times seemed to be unwinding. She never felt graceful and she wondered her bum was too big. Some people just fall out of bed looking like a million dollars, but Emma knew she wasn’t one of them. At least she had Claire though. Not like that of course, but they were good friends and now they were flatmates too.

Claire could have been friends with anyone, wondered Emma, but she’d still picked her. In their first week of University, they’d seemed to be the only two people who hadn’t known anyone else. Emma had at all times kept to herself, often feeling awkward in social situations, whereas Claire had arrived from some kind of posh private college. Even Emma had heard of it. Not that Claire had been a rich kid herself. She was just extraordinarily gifted academically and had won a prestigious scholarship into the sixth-form. A final two-year boost of elite and expensive education after the frustration of coasting unchallenged at the top of her everyday class. All the privileges provided by an institution that people knew of. People with influence, that is. People who read CVs and made hiring decisions. It sounded like everyone she’d known there had seemingly taken a gap year and gone travelling though, and from what little she’d said about the place, it didn’t sound to Emma that they had much in common anyway. Emma wasn’t sure what she really had in common with Claire either, or why she chose to be her friend, but somehow they at all times ended up together after classes and at weekends. Maybe it was because neither of them showed the slighted interest in men or really even in socialising more generally. Often their course-mates would suggest a pub visit after a big assignment deadline, but Emma wasn’t comfortable in large groups and Claire just wasn’t into pubs, she said. There were certainly rumours that they were Gay – to which they both reacted with a bored eye-roll — but in reality, they were simply content to hang out in whatever spare time they had. Anyway, Claire was far too ambitious to waste precious study time on anyone trivial or temporary and Emma just didn’t know what she wanted.

All that was over now though. Uni was done. They were officially professional women and surely an asset to any growing company. At least that’s what her CV claimed, but Emma still felt like an imposter, skimming along the surface of low prospect clerical jobs, making enough to pay the rent but with no real direction in mind. They used to call it temping, but it seemed like everything was temporary these days. Claire, of course had it all sorted out. She’d landed a place on the management track with a media group. She looked the part too. She wasn’t much taller than Emma, but she was trim and neat and carried herself with confidence. It came with the education, Emma supposed. Character building and all the right connections. All part of that very exclusive service. Her hair was straight and dark and she wore it long but neatly trimmed and parted down the middle. She looked like someone who was going places. Emma just hoped she could hang on tight enough to stay along for the ride.

So here they both were. The final clear-out of Claire’s old room. Emma was helping out of friendship, but she a was curious too. Rifling through someone else’s past. Who know’s what you would turn up? The floor was cluttered with the detritus of an adolescence long passed: piles of books she’d never read again, old clothes, her clunky old desktop computer and random pieces of sporting equipment. Several black bin liners completed the picture, each tagged with a bright-yellow post-it note — Keep it, Donate it or Skip it. One bag was much fuller than all the others though. Claire was trying to be brutal but was failing miserably. Even for a decisive woman like herself, throwing away your past is much harder than you think it’s gonna be and there were so many memories here. They’d nearly finished though. Just load the car and then the long drive home. Claire was already looking forward to a glass of wine on the sofa and some mindless TV before bed.

Emma reached into the almost empty wardrobe. One last thing.

“What’s this then?” She enquired. She held a large garment bag by the metal hook of its hanger and offered it towards her friend.

Claire looked surprised. “Open it. If it’s what I think it is, you’ll probably get a laugh”.

Emma unzipped the light woven cover and found herself staring at something both completely familiar and yet totally mysterious to her.

“It’s my old school uniform” Claire said.

Emma had realised that. But this wasn’t like any college uniform she’d ever seen. The fabric was expensive. No stain resistant polyester here. A pleated skirt made from finely woven wool in a rich blue tartan, shot through in squares with with green and white thread. The dark blue blazer, also made from an expensive cloth, was fully tailored, with buttons that looked handmade and even the plain white shirt was made from fine cotton and carried a small monogram in gold on the breast pocket which she noticed repeated on the blazer.

“The tie is probably in the pocket” Claire added, absently.

Emma certainly wasn’t laughing though. In fact she felt strange. It was as if she’d just looked down over the edge of a tall building. You know you can not fall, but your stomach goes light and your hands begin to sweat.

“You okay?”. Claire’s voice broke the spell and Emma tried to sound natural.

“Oh”. Emma stalled and tried to respond naturally. “I… I was just thinking about how the other half live. I can’t believe you used to wear this.” She stroked the fabric, not even realising that she was doing so.

“It’s pretty unbelievable isn’t it?” But her friend looked thoughtful for moment “You do understand that I’m not the other half though, right? I’d far rather be with you than with them. I mean, I do appreciate the opportunity I was given and I understand that it was a huge privilege, but…” she sighed “I always felt I was running to catch up and having to ask what the rules were. I only went there as a sixth former. I was 18, a grown up and I was there on merit, but I still felt like I was the new girl every single day.”

“A different world” Wondered Emma. That sounded good. Everything moved so fast in this one and there were so many decisions to make. She never felt like she knew what was going on. Maybe someone to tell her what the rules were was what she needed. Like having a mentor or her own personal prefect.

She was vaguely aware that Claire was still talking – something else about the rules – but she wasn’t really listening now. Her mind had driften elsewhere. She was in a secret place now. Somewhere that she usually only visited when she was alone at night. A large hall smelling faintly of furniture polish, with a dusty wooden floor. She imagined the distant echoes of doors being opened and slammed shut. She was alone and she was facing the wall with her hands folded behind her. She was waiting to be called.

“Emma?” Claire’s voice cut through her dream.

She realised that she was still holding the uniform and also that she didn’t want to put it down, but she felt suddenly conspicuous holding it there. It was like she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t allowed to.

Claire had turned away, calling behind herself as she left the room

“Oh, you decide. Skip it, probably. I’m just too tired now. I’ve seen enough ancient history for one day already and we should really start heading back”

Emma waited quietly. Her decision. Oh dear. She knew what she wanted to do but also that Claire couldn’t know. She wouldn’t find out. It was just some old clothes, but it felt like something much more. Discarding the hanger, she carefully folded the uniform in half. Placing it into the bag marked ‘Keep’, then she pulled some of the other things roughly over it and carried the bag down to the waiting car.

Home. Claire was watching TV. It had been a long day and now she just wanted to relax before bed. She’d bagged up her past, kept what she wanted and swept the rest away. It was strange to see that old uniform again. Emma had been a bit funny about it, she’d wondered. What was that about? She was probably imagining the dreaming spires of Olde England or something. That wasn’t completely inaccurate, she wondered, but there were other, more private traditions too.

Nothing was ever written down of course. Nothing official and it was at all times behind closed doors but everybody knew, even if they didn’t discuss it. She’d only got it the once. Four strokes across her knickers, but she’d at all times remember it. An ill-judged visit to the village pub. She hadn’t gone alone and it wasn’t even her idea, but it was only her who had been caught sneaking back in. She’d been 18, so it wasn’t against the law but it was against the rules and there were no exceptions. That’s what the prefect had said the next evening, as they stood together quietly in the empty classroom. No exceptions.

She shifted involuntarily in her chair as the familiar memory surfaced once more. She’d been given a choice, but a letter home would blemish her scholarship and she didn’t want that, so she’d quietly nodded her consent and the other girl had dealt with her there and then. Off the record. Later she suspected that she’d been set up by the others: Give the new girl a taste of the rules. It had hurt like hell of course and she’d felt really embarrassed, knowing that the other girl could see her knickers, but the prefect had a calmness to her and a kindness in her voice and that had made it easier. She’d even given her a hug afterwards. She’d developed quite a crush on her after that.

“All in the past”, she muttered. Even as she said it, she knew she was lying though. It was at all times close by. Even three long years later, there was something messy and unresolved about it. Her embarrassment at bending over like that and that one other girl being the only person who really knew. An intense, secret moment that only they shared. Over time, the events had become more fluid in her mind: the punishment; the hug and her feelings towards the girl afterwards. Their roles had become merged or even reversed and sometimes it felt as if she herself had held the cane and made the other girl bend for her.

“This is what happens when you dig around in your past” she wondered. She squeezed her thighs together, aware of the warm pleasure she was feeling, then stretched in the chair and tried to focus her attention on the screen.

Emma closed her bedroom door quietly and turned off the light. There wasn’t a lock, but Claire was watching TV and the thin curtain over her window allowed in enough streetlight to illuminate the room without attracting attention from the hallway. She could pretend to be sleeping. She laid the uniform out in front of her, smoothing it flat on her bed and just stared at it for while. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she savoured the sight of it, feeling at once dizzy and nervous with excitement. Usually she was so bad at making decisions, but this one had seemed to make itself. She stripped quickly down to her simple white underwear, pulled on a pair of plain white knee socks and then removed her bra, throwing her old clothes into a rough pile by the door.

She knew for sure what she wanted now. Where she wanted to go. It had been a half-formed wondered until now, something that entered her thoughts sideways and uninvited when she touched herself at night, but the uniform had made it manifest. She put on the skirt with her socks and knickers. It was a bit tight on her hips and fell shorter than it should have, exposing more of her thighs than would have been intended. That was okay though.

“Better actually”. It was her own voice in her head, but it sounded at once unfamiliar.

Standing topless in the half-lit room, she ran her fingers gently over her breasts. There was no hurry. No hurry at all.

She grasped her left nipple gently between her thumb and forefinger, first rubbing and then twisting its tip. It was already hard and felt deliciously sensitive to her touch. She squeezed, pulling it taut, breathing in sharply at the sudden escalation in sensation. She waited like that, holding it for several seconds, stroking the underside of the breast with the fingertips of her other hand until the moment was right.

She relaxed her right arm to her side and then with a sudden, impulsive upward movement, she slapped her breast hard with her palm, releasing the nipple as she did so and leaving clear imprint of her fingers on the soft sensitive skin. Her knees buckled in shock and she fought to control the surge of pain. It was hard not to cry out and she pressed her palm flat against herself in attempt to soothe it. As the deep stinging ache gradually subsided, she slapped herself hard again and then on the other side, doubling up each time in hurt.

Now she was ready. Worthy even, to wear the rest of the uniform. She knew that the shirt would be tight on her and the cotton pulled against her swollen nipples which poked hard against it it return. Her breasts still stung from the slaps and she couldn’t comfortably button the collar either, but the tie would disguise an open button. Her transformation was almost complete.

Finally she picked up the blazer. She held it close to her face and breathed in. It smelled of Claire – not her perfume, but undefinably of the girl herself. She savoured the scent for a moment, before squeezing into it. Like the rest of her outfit the tailoring was for someone thinner but it had been made with some room to grow. She didn’t care anyway. It was perfect. She felt brave now, invincible even. She ran her hands over herself, hugging the clothes against her body, circling her hips and allowing the hem of the skirt to brush against her naked thighs. She rubbed herself through the tartan pleats and moaned under her breath. She could hear her own heart beating and she imagined that Claire could hear it too, but the TV was still just about audible and even though what she was about to do was a enormous risk, she didn’t care. This Emma took risks, she was reckless even and if rules were broken, she’d take the consequences.

She stepped towards the edge of of the room and faced the wall, standing with her back towards the door. She folded her arms behind herself and stepped as close as she could without touching it. Her breasts stung and her bare thighs felt exposed by the shortness of the skirt. She know there was still a chance that Claire might walk in. She’d knock of course, but there would be no time to react, she’d just have to stand there in silence and hope. She thrilled at this dreadful possibility, but she didn’t have a choice. She’d been ordered to wait until she was called.

“Next!”.

It wasn’t her own voice. Not her decision. She wasn’t being given a choice.

She turned around smartly and followed her summons, before meekly stepping forward into the room.

“Bend over” said the voice. But whose voice was it now?

Standing with her feet slightly aside, she reached down to touch her toes. The uniform was a little too tight and she couldn’t quite manage it, but she felt the skirt lifting behind her as she tried, enjoying the obvious vulnerability. She grasped her ankles instead and held that pose for a few moments, imagining she’d been ordered into position and left to await her punishment. Her calves felt taut and she wondered about how much they would ache if she were made to stay like this while she was…

“While she was caned.” The voice reminded her.

“Yes,” She agreed “No exceptions.” She shivered in anticipation.

She imagined the wicked anticipation of the cane tap, tap, tapping on the seat of her knickers as the first stroke was lined up.

“Your legs will ache, but not as much as your bottom will!” That voice again. Familiar but still discernibly not her own. Now it was time.

She stood up again and turned to face her new refection in the bedroom mirror. She’d be able to see herself from the bed. Good. Then, reaching down to her small bedside table, she retrieved her hairbrush and weighed it in her hand. It was the one she used each night to brush out her plait, but that wasn’t her plan tonight. It felt cool and heavy, its thick wooden back was dark and highly polished. She gripped the handle tightly. It had been expensive, but nothing modern would suffice. Kneeling on the floor, she spread her knees and rested the side of her face on her bed. She rubbed the smooth cold wood against the back of her right thigh and tried to imagine how the pain would feel. She pushed her bottom out further, as if taunting her own reflection. In the mirror behind her, she could see that her the skirt had ridden up to reveal her knickers, stretched in a tight white band across her generous bottom. The blazer pulled against her elbows, but she could still move freely enough to do what she needed.

“Please,” she sighed internally “I’m just the new girl.”

and then brought the brush down hard against her skin.

The stinging impact exploded against her thigh and she lurched involuntarily. It hurt much more than she’d expected, but she knew that this was what she needed and she quickly delivered a second blow to exactly the same spot, then a third, then a fourth. She paused, breathing shakily, her eyes half-closed and mouth half-open. The pain was awful, but she wanted it to hurt more. If it didn’t hurt, there would be no pleasure and she wanted the pleasure. She felt hot and sticky between her legs and she knew that her knickers were already wet, but she wasn’t allowed to touch herself yet.

“Not yet, she told herself. “You need to be taught a lesson.”

Shifting her position slightly, she struck against her left thigh. It was a bit more awkward, but she could still land the brush hard enough to make herself wince. Pausing for breath, she imagined other hands at work behind her and then, reaching back, she pulled hard at the waistband of her knickers, ripping them sharply down to her knees. She looked at her reflection again and was rewarded not only with the sight of solid red marks low on both cheeks, but also her dark puckered anus and her engorged pussy lips. She didn’t worry if her bum looked too big now. In fact, she loved how it looked. This was how she wanted it to look. She tested the soreness gently, running her fingernails over the hot patches of skin. Both cheeks were already stinging, but she needed more. Daring herself to go harder, shuddering at each sharp impact as she pushed her face into the duvet to suppress her own cries, she spanked herself with the brush, short and sharp, again and again, until her whole bottom was an unbearable stinging mass.

Crawling awkwardly onto the bed, she rolled onto her back, pulling her left knee up towards her breast, rubbing at her nipples through the shirt and stroking the pleats of her skirt against herself. She struck with the brush repeatedly, this time against her sit-spot. Her eyes were wet with tears and she stifled her wish to call out with each stroke. Finally, her need for release overpowered her. She threw the brush onto the bed and thrust her fingers between her legs, rubbing frantically at herself, as the fantasy of submission gradually dissolved, evaporating into waves of woozy, wet pleasure and then into nothing at all.