Double Trouble 42

I am never good with categories, or for that matter specific tags, it all just seems to wander off in different directions. Everything contained within these pages are works of complete fiction. The characters in this story are themselves entirely fictional. They do not exist, never have, and never will and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, whether by name or by description, is purely coincidental and unintentional.

The author does not condone behaviour like those exhibited within these pages other than in a world of pure fiction. When the term girl is used, it is a derogatory label, and everyone in this work of fiction is over eighteen.

Incidentally- there is no actual sex in this chapter.

However, all that said, this is just a story dragged up from the wild and violent tides of overthinking, which have taken a heavy toll; these thoughts dim the light and usher in the black dog that asks, 'What if?'

~~oOo~~

Double Trouble

He walked through the pale sunshine of a rather pleasant evening in early April; the clocks had just sprung forward, and with it came the lighter evenings.

It was warm for the time of the year, but the helpful weather people had warned of the prospect of a rapid drop in temperature under a cloudless still night.

He sensed nature's urgency all around him as spring was halfway done. He is well over six feet tall, so when he strode determinedly, he covered the ground quickly. He manifests no outward discontent at being summoned; time has taught him to be philosophical about the rigours of his work. He is pushing half a century and is considered lean and well-preserved, even if his clothes are a bit grey and frayed around the edges.

He took the wooden stairs two at a time, his right hand on the bannister to pull as his left leg did the heavy lifting.

He entered his study, and there they were, two heartbreakingly beautiful, slender young women standing beside each other; behind them, the high Georgian window overlooking a riot of fresh green leaves.

They are both looking furtively at the floor, avoiding eye contact.

One a honey blonde; the other slightly darker, their hair was messily tied up in buns on top of their heads.

They wore identical college uniforms, with white, small capped sleeves and a low, off-the-shoulder open-neck blouse. They were soaking wet, and the thin material of their blouses sheer and tight, clinging to their prominent chests. A couple of buttons are also missing, and they look dishevelled.

Their grey and black plaid skirt stuck to their thighs and their hands were thrust deep into the pockets of their very short skirts.

They wear white bobby socks and black Mary Janes on their long legs.

Their expressions are unreadable.

"Oh, for goodness sake!" He exclaimed, the moment he took in the scene, he immediately turned around and went to the staff bathroom. He picked up two towels and proceeded back to his study.

He held out the two towels, "Dry yourselves off, you two; why Miss Briggs didn't suggest you do that before sending you to my study is rather worrying; you could catch your death."

The two young women took a towel each and started to pat themselves down.

He always made room for their quiet introspection; he would look, he would listen, examining the details, what was said, and more importantly, what was unsaid.

He knew the issues well, which seemed inevitable and predictable, so he waited.

They answered before any question was asked, preemptive, the pair batting backwards and forward in a quiet, sporadic delivery, like twin bells ringing off-key; if they were playing a tune, it was free jazz, one finishing where the other left off.

Discordant, broken, no real reasons, but accusations of guilt and fault.

"It's her fault; I was only walking."

"Yeah, sure you were; I was only sitting."

"But you tripped me."

"You pushed me."

"Didn't."

"Did."

He let it go on, knowing it would peter out; it could never be resolved. Unspoken, an odd, terse truce somehow declared, with tears and silence. The tears the pair had both sworn would never happen again now fell anew down their cheeks, making them blush red with their passage.

He watched for the inevitable shift; one hand tentatively reached for the other, the other brushing her fingers over the extended peace offering until they were clasping hands tightly.

Woe betide anyone who tried to come between these two.

"Incidentally, why are you two not wearing a bra, or at the very least a vest?" He asked.

"Laundry." They both replied in unison.

He pushed down his answer, knowing he wouldn't win this one.

He opened a cupboard, extracting two college sweatshirts. "Put these on." He said, handing them over. Both young women grinned at each other before swiftly working to pull their wet blouses off.

"That's not what I meant, and you both know it!" He said quickly, turning his back on them, knowing that within seconds, the pair would be half naked.

He heard them giggle.

He smiled hearing the sound as a treasured memory crept up on him, threatening to expose him.

He pushed it down, telling himself he would revisit his memories later because, now, in the present, there were consequences that neither he nor the two young women would be able to avoid.

Rules were rules, and for these two, the consequences were unavoidable.

After a suitable time elapsed, he turned back, grateful they were now wearing the dry sweatshirts, their wet blouses discarded on his desk.

He sighed; there was a profound sadness that he wore every day.

They knew a different side.

They watched him intensely--every twitch, every micro movement. "You both know I have no choice; there can be no hint or suggestion of leniency for you two, and you know expelling you is not an option, so what am I to do?" The question was rhetorical.

He picked up the internal telephone, he didn't have to wait before the other end was picked up, "Miss Moore, would you please attend my study," there was a pause, "yes, it is as I feared, six each I believe is the regulation."

He put down the telephone handset like a fragile thing likely to break with the merest knock.

He spoke, his voice soft and melancholic

"Well... well, that's it then, you two have proven to be unstoppable, and our rule book is immutable, so sadly, we have a paradox and may well all be destined for mutual destruction, but the sad, unbearable truth is, I cannot witness any more pain."

The two young women looked at each other, disbelief and horror written clearly in their eyes, this wasn't the plan, this wasn't how it was supposed to be.

He smiled sadly, then turned and left his study quietly, his thoughts dark and brooding, his previous light-hearted mood gone.

~~oOo~~

The two young women hugged each other, why did he have to call Miss Moore.

Miss Moore was the games mistress and something of a hero to all the young women at the college. They had seen large glossy poster prints of her poses at Physique Competitions. She wore heels and a very low-cut, small triangle, black rhinestone bikini with spaghetti straps. She was stunning, with short dark hair, large, dark brown eyes, and a delicately shaped face and button nose. She always seems to have a natural tan, and her tall, slender figure, with chiselled abdominals and defined muscles in her arms and thighs, creates graceful shapes as she strikes a series of elegant poses in the pictures.

Almost as if she was waiting outside, the study door opened, and Miss Moore walked in. She was wearing her typical green tracksuit and white trainers. Her hair was damp, as if she had just stepped out of the shower. Her tracksuit jacket was undone, revealing a tiny white crop top. "Helena, Hermia, I thought your father would be here?" Miss Moore said by way of an opening.

"No, Miss, he just left." The two young women spoke together. Some people found the way the twin sisters spoke in unison annoying, but Racheal Moore thought it was cute. She had a great deal of time for the two young women, and even more time for their father.

"Really girls, I was hoping to discuss something with him, but never mind, we have a task to perform. Helena, Hermia you will now disrobe completely and prepare to be punished." Miss Moore stated.

"What!" Both young women exclaimed.

"Yes, you will strip. I am well aware, of course, that regulations state that only bottoms need to be bared, but here now with me, you two need to learn; I don't know why you behave so outrageously towards your father. He is an exceptional man, and I am going to teach you both the meaning of respect, so strip!" Miss Moore was implacable.

Both young women had heard that stern, unwavering tone before in gym class and knew not to make a fuss; they reluctantly began to undress.

Racheal Moore had seen the two naked before after games in the showers; it was inevitable, but here in the Principal's office, it was different as she watched the two young women remove their clothing.

The girls were not wearing very much to start with, so it didn't take long before they were both standing naked, one arm covering their breasts, the other held down to cover their maidenhood.

Racheal had to work to maintain a professional attitude. Both of the young women were beautiful. They were identical twins, although Helena was the eldest by fifteen minutes. They were both well-developed, with high, firm breasts and narrow hips, and both of them were blushing furiously as they stood naked.

"Hands by your sides Ladies, this isn't meant to be comfortable, humiliation is a necessary part of the punishment experience." Racheal ordered as she took off her own jacket to hang it up.

She collected the cane so recently used on her bottom by the Principal when he was teaching her how to wield it effectively. It was she, herself who suggested he demonstrated on her own naked bottom. She had wanted to tease him, and she harboured a bit of a crush, but the reality of the cane was surprisingly difficult to handle. Her dedication to the perfect physique meant hours of training and hard work; in the beginning, it was painful and arduous, so she was very use to physical demands, but the clean, bright, intense fire that erupted across her buttocks with the first strike of the cane sent her sobbing into the principal's arms like a schoolgirl.

She shook her head, clearing any thought of his strong arms around her, "This is the standard senior cane, a yard length of smooth, polished hazel wood, you are both to receive six strokes each for fighting. I will expect you two to be able to maintain position bent over that chair. If you get up, or try to protect yourselves in any way, or even use foul and abusive language then you will get two extra strokes for every infringement."

"Yes Miss Moore." The two red faced young women responded, their limbs shaking, their expressions fearful.

"Hermia, as the youngest, you go first; adopt the position," Racheal ordered.

The young women on the pair's left stepped forward to the chair and obediently got into position. Her toes just reached the floor with her hands on the seat cushion, her small, tight bottom at the top of the chair back; her pale cheeks were remarkable with a delightful cleft between each buttock, a succulent peach of ripe, tender flesh with a glimpse of her sex between her slightly spread legs.

The cane felt deadly in her hand she flicked it experimentally, the sound made Hermia's bottom cheeks twitch. She took a step forward, lining up the cane horizontally, just below the crown, she drew back her arm, then brought it forward in a fast, wide, swooping arc.

The wood buried itself deep into the soft flesh, and immediately bounced back, the cane vibrated, with a sharp crack.

Hermia's bottom jerked, her cheeks quivering with the intense firey pain that shot through her entire body till it reached her lips as an anguished cry.

Hermia wobbled on her toes, her bum shifting from side to side as the white stripe left by the cane almost immediately began to darken, going crimson, with an angry shade of blue-black in the centre.

Racheal lined up again, confidently striking the second stroke so that it landed right below the first. It was more brutal, and the angry, dark line sprang up immediately.

Hermia wriggled even more, dragging air into her lungs before she cried out.

Racheal followed up quickly, she had found her mark, tempered her strength and drove, three four, and then five, working down the undulating flesh until she struck low into the crease.

She paused, her cane pulled back, she placed a left hand on Hermia's battered cheeks, Hermia quivered at the touch, Racheal lifted her left hand, and swung down with the right, placing the sixth and hardest strike yet into the crease, driving in solidly.

Hermia screamed, her body sagging.

"Get up girl, go and stand facing the wall, hands on head. Helena, your turn, same rules; adopt the position now!" Rachael instructed with absolute authority.

Both young women obeyed immediately.

Hermia rose, her face red and puffy; she gave a little bow and whispered, "Thank you, Miss Moore." Then she walked carefully to the wall to stand with her hands on her head and her angry red bottom on display.

Helena, not wanting to give any excuse for extra strokes, hurried to replace her sister; she bent over the top of the chair, gripping the edge of the seat tightly.

"Excellent," Racheal said.

Like her sister, Helena's bottom was very pretty, and the two young women had definitely inherited the same characteristics and features; she wondered if that was the root cause of the problem: too much alike.

She lined up the cane; she realised how, that on Hermia's bottom, her cane strokes had built-in power with every successive stroke so that each was worse than the previous.

Helena shuddered, her naked bottom twitching as she waited for her fate.

Rachael stuck, delivering a solid stroke in the very middle of the vulnerable buttocks.

Helena grunted, so Racheal struck again with more power; the vicious strike sank into the flesh like a live serpent.

Helena's screech was pure anguish, high-pitched and ending with a heartbroken sob.

Like previously, Racheal delivered the subsequent three devastating strokes in quick succession; all the while, Helena was wiggling frantically on the chair back, her bottom dancing as the dreadful pain tore through her.

After five, she paused, savouring the moment she heard the sobs and moans from the prone girl.

She brought the wicked cane up a long way before aiming to strike the dead centre of the crease. It was a devastating cut, and Helena howled, tears dripping onto the seat cushion.

Racheal waited for Helena to recover before she said, "You may get up Helena, go and stand by you sister, hands on your head."

Helena rose shakily, and like her sister, bowed slightly before saying, "Thank for you caning me Miss Moore."

Then she went and stood next to Hermia.

Racheal sat down in the generous leather chair behind the oak desk. She put her feet up on the desk. She was struggling with the surprise of raw, visceral emotions she was feeling. She was desperate to play with herself; she had never felt so powerful, so in control, it was intoxicating.

She watched the two young women; they were subdued, their perfect bottoms were swollen, and six parallel lines of burning pain decorated their pale skin. The ticking of a long-case clock echoed off the walls and the polished parquet floor. She held her breath, surreptitiously pushing her hand under her white crop top. Finding her naked breast and bullet-hard nipple, she squeezed, stifling the threatening guttural moan.

Racheal Moore had never been so turned on in her life.

She pulled her hand away, pushing herself up to stand. "You two, bend over the desk; I wish to inspect your bottoms!" She ordered.

The two young women dutifully moved; they stayed together but walked quickly to the desk; they bent, their ankles together, their elbows on the desk top.

Racheal walked around them; she spent several minutes positioning the two, twice making them get up and back down. She loved the way their breasts brushed the desk surface. At first, they reacted slowly, But soon they became accustomed to obeying, and soon they were doing what she said instantly and without question. She made them go up on the tips of their toes, hold, and dip their backs so that the action thrust their bottom out and tight.

All of Racheal's actions were deliberate, designed to further embarrass the young women, humiliating them further, and all of her demands just made her hotter and even more aroused.

She was transfixed with the welts on their bottoms; the whole of their bums were red, swollen and sore, but the six tramlines were raised, angry lines of pure spitefulness.

Racheal, shook her head, coming to her senses, this was wrong and she couldn't take advantage, she was the responsible adult in charge.

"Please stand up, girls, get dressed and go home. Ask your father for an ice pack and the Arnica and Aloe Vera cream I gave him, you will heal more quickly."

Helena and Hermia rose, "Thank you Miss Moore." They spoke in unison before running over to their clothes, it took them a minute to dress and exit the study.

End