It seems so long ago now.
But it was only 1974. When Michelle was just sixteen years old. A
shy, somewhat mixed-up girl, attending the Notre Dame du Lac convent school
in Montreal. She was a little confused at still being in a church school,
after all the trouble she’d caused at the last one. But it was what her
parents wanted, and it what the local priest recommended: he said it would
do her good. Just what was needed, the nuns and the Catholic Women’s League
had assured her mother, to straighten her wayward daughter out. Notre Dame
had a reputation for discipline, for ‘no nonsense’.

She felt even more like an outsider there than at St.Agatha’s. Not
only because she was taller than her classmates, but because she was
inclined to withdraw from the usual schoolgirl giggling about boyfriends,
and was quite immune to their fascination with greasy pop singers and ugly
film stars. Most of all, she kept her distance because she didn’t feel any
affinity with the two warring poles of the student body. Neither the
affluent middle-class English-speaking girls — many of whom feigned New
England accents — nor the proletarian Quebecoise girls, with their
aggressive pro-French, rebellious attitudes appealed to her.

The English clique all went on to be lawyers, doctors, TV
executives, or mothers of huge clans of children just like themselves. The
French? Female cops, scowling government officials who mocked your grasp of
French, supermarket check-out clerks, TV-watching couch potatoes, angry
women in check-out lines with pudgy, pouting children just like themselves.
A natural social divide.

She couldn’t see the point in either group’s position, but because
she’d never lived anywhere else but Quebec at that point, she couldn’t put
the pettiness in a broader perspective. Later, she’d look back in wonder at
the common sense her teenage self possessed, and marvel how right she had
been, so young.

Almost from the first day, there’d been friction. With the other
girls, yes, though she had made a few friends who she’d identified as
having the same neutral, above-it-all position. But most of the tension
came from the school staff. Being a Catholic girls’ school, nearly all the
teachers were nuns. Stiff, starched, humorless women, in the main. Pudgy
middle-aged women bitter about their ebullient charges. The Mother Superior
in particular had the mentality of a Nazi concentration camp commandant.
And then there was tiny, venomous Sister Agnes, the deputy headmistress,
truly a bitch from hell. With her round steel-rimmed glasses and short hair
she seemed like Beria, or one of the other Soviet secret police chiefs.

From their first meeting, Michelle and Sister Agnes were in an
undeclared war, a battle of wills. To Sister Agnes, Michelle is an
immediate challenge, and one that’s going to be accepted. This is a contest
of wills, and one she’s played in many times before, since the first
rebellious girls of the 1950s showed their pouting, insolent ‘we love
Elvis’ faces. And it’s a contest she has always won, even the epic battles
of the great hippie rebellion. There’s a reason. By inclination, Sister
Agnes likes to thrash first and ask questions later. Minor infractions of
the rules are jumped on when she detects signs of rebellion. The sooner you
quell it, the more time there is for prayer and contemplation, she has
learned. And rebellions are best cured with the paddle, the strap and the
cane, liberally applied.

Michelle’s challenge to the system is twofold. First, as her
previous school has confided in its referral letter, she’s a spoiled brat.
To make matters worse, she is very difficult to control. Why? It’s all due
to the inability of her parents to manage her at home. There’s an older
sister she is constant battling. But despite their mutual antipathy,
Maureen is teaching her all kinds of negative habits, and leading her
astray with tales of her own sexual adventures. A weak home discipline
environment always breeds trouble, Sister Agnes knows. It negates the
purpose of any threats of notifying her parents about her poor classroom
behavior, at least with any expectation of getting results.

Michelle is capable of “snapping” at classmates, and even teachers.
It’s an innate Celtic genetic thing, no doubt. She has shown a tendency to
be quite profane while throwing a “fit” about something or someone that
displeases her. It is this tendency that the Mother Superior sees in urgent
need of correcting. There’s more: the staff have observed her behavior to
be very demeaning and condescending to others. She has been known to bully
quiet or demure girls, and pick on smaller classmates, or the younger ones.

Physically, Michelle is tall, maybe 5′ 11″ by now, and very
slender. She has light auburn hair, worn long and straight. In appearance,
her face is somewhat average. She’s not a stunning beauty, by any means.
Her figure, though, is compelling. She is an athlete, and runs track in
the spring. She is a sprinter and a jumper. Though thin, her legs are well
muscled, particularly her thighs. She has slim, almost boyish hips and her
bottom … well, that’s her best feature. And she knows it. She always
selects clothes that seem, at least to the Mother Superior, to be a little
too tight. That accentuate her very round, obviously very firm, backside.
When she walks her bottom rolls tightly from side to side in a blatantly
sexy way. She often places her hands on her bottom to smooth her skirt or
tucks her fingers in her rear pockets.

To the Mother Superior and Sister Agnes, it’s clear: A girl who
thinks too much about her sexual appeal is a menace to good order. And a
bully, too. That can’t be tolerated. Someone like Michelle needs to be
“brought down a peg,” and they’re looking for an opportunity to do it. It
won’t be over school work: Michelle is bright and talented. Her only weak
subject is French, as if she just doesn’t care. Even later in life, she is
never comfortable with much more than grocery shopping in French.

It takes a few months. The Sisters have their suspicions. They
obtain information that Michelle has been secretly — with several other of
her associates — initiating younger girls in sexual education matters that
are rightfully the responsibility of girls’ parents or guardians, or the
school’s biology teacher. There are rumors of dirty magazines and photos in
some secret trove, of meetings where there’s nudity, of masturbation being
demonstrated and taught, gatherings where all kinds of perversions have
been discussed.

There’s a tradition here of rebellious little clubs of wicked girls
since the mid-sixties, and Sister Agnes is determined to be the one who is
going to break them up for good. And it’s not just sex, or attitude that’s
annoying the nuns. No, Michelle blasphemes. On many occasions, they’ve been
warned, she has taken the name of the Lord in vain, mocked the Trinity,
Mary, the institution of confession. She’s been using words and actions
that are not tolerated by the church. And for that alone, they’re
determined to punish her. And punish her hard.

Michelle is oblivious. Is it hubris? She’s getting away with a lot,
so she thinks she always will. She’s beginning to enjoy her role as the
center of attention of her little clique of friends. They think of
themselves as very daring, uninhibited and brave. Maybe they are a little
funky for a girlschool cabal. But on the cosmic scale? What they do is not
a big deal, and will seem quite tame as the century rolls onward.

Her initiations of new girls take place at night, in secret, at a
bandstand in a local park. Very discrete. They pick only those who appear
likely to keep a secret: either from an innate wanton streak, or because
they seem easily cowed into submission.

Yet no secret is forever. One young, pious girl — Marie-Eve —
says she has witnessed it, and comes forward and informs on them. Sister
Agnes is too smart to fall for the first story the girl tells her. She
senses Marie-Eve’s own guilt. Her guess is that the girl is a participant
who has either thought better of her actions, or been bullied too much by
Michelle and seeks revenge. They want the whole story. Marie-Eve protests,
then denies involvement.

But soon she has confessed in full, under threat of a good
thrashing with the cane. The nuns are shocked at what they hear. It’s as
bad as they’d heard whispered: communal moonlit nudity, young girls being
asked to show themselves to others ‘to improve their confidence’,
demonstrations of masturbation techniques by older girls, talk of lesbians,
masochism, filthy photos, even some cases of ‘putting things in.’

Mother Superior can’t let this go on. She vows that Michelle is
going to be publicly caned for her sins, to teach her a lesson. It should
deter all her friends, too.

One lunchtime, Michelle is summoned to Sister Agnes’ office and
accused, in front of Marie-Eve. She denies it, then angrily curses the
younger girl, shouting: “You fucking little bitch! How could you tell them!
What about your promise!!?”

“So, it’s true, Michelle?” Sister Agnes asks, with a thin smile of
triumph.

“Yes, and so what? It’s just a few girls having some fun together
in private . . .” Michelle is turning red with anger.

“A park is private??”

“No one saw us. We were just, letting off steam, relaxing . . .”

That is the Proof they seek. She is angrily told: “You’re a disgrace to the
school, Michelle. A complete, total disgrace. You should be expelled.”

“That’s okay be me,” Michelle snaps back.

“I’m afraid not. You don’t get away with it that easily. You may
want to go, but your dear mother has made it clear to me that you cannot be
allowed to defy another school and walk away, with a big grin on your
cheeky face. No. So there is only one course of action open to us. Sister
Agnes? Summon an assembly. This young lady is going to be severely
punished, right now.”

Only Michelle sees it, but Marie-Eve’s smile of malicious pleasure
at this news is as wide as the Cheshire Cat’s. Her whispered: “Great!” only
reaches Michelle’s ear.

The truth about Marie-Eve? Just as you’ve figured out. She was
quite happy to join the group of deviants at the bandstand. And quicker
than most to strip off her clothes and exhibit herself. She had rubbed
without being asked, described some very forward oral adventures with a
neighborhood boy, confessed to an interest in other girls. Michelle had
quickly taken a personal interest, caressing and exploring her. She found
her fascinating, her wantonness very inviting. Marie-Eve’s response had
been quite vigorous, and the only thing that had turned her against her
newfound friends was a growing sense in her mind that they found her ‘too
forward,’ and even a little too committedly lesbian in taste.

What’s certain is that Michelle would have saved herself a lot of
impending pain and shame if she had taken Marie-Eve up on her impassioned,
whispered plea to take her somewhere private, away from the others, and
tonguefuck her. Michelle had hesitated, a fatal move. Only five minutes, a
simple mutual favor. Oh, there’d have been some giggling and gossip, but it
wouldn’t have been a big deal. An opportunity missed, spoiled by too much
education.

A half hour later, Michelle is in the vestry, the chapel changing
room used by the choir. She has been given a small basket for her clothes,
and ordered to undress and change into what’s in there. Now she is wearing
a long white cotton nightdress, of material so thin you can see through it
in the right light, white cotton panties, but no other underwear of any
sort. She has bare feet, her hair is tightly pinned up (a school rule she
always defies), and she is carrying a large crucifix, a rosary and a heavy
leather-bound bible. A reluctant penitent. When she steps out into the
chapel from the changing room, Sister Agnes is there to lead the way. And
there’s a procession of a dozen ‘good girls’ — all the smarmiest, suck-up
blondie bitches, she sees — dressed in white, holding lit candles. She is
put in line, six before and six behind, and they slowly walk out. They’re
going to the gym, she soon realizes.

All the members of her class have been summoned, to join an even
larger group gathered in the gym. It includes some younger boys from the
neighboring school; girls of all ages from Notre Dame, including lots of
her ‘pupils,’ all trying not to look guilty, and failing. To her horror,
some adults are arriving. Parents! No! Marie-Eve’s are here, looking very
angry! Who knows what story they’ve been told about their innocent daughter
being seduced? My God, she sees, with renewed trembling: here are her own
parents, too! Her father must have been summoned from work with a phone
call. He looks alternately bemused and angry. Her mother, prissy, prim and
barely suppressing her rage. There are school work staff, cooks, gardeners!

She is led in, and up onto a platform at the end of the gym, put
there for a school play that’s in rehearsal. She stands numbly, swaying
while her sins are described in loving, prurient detail by the Mother
Superior. Then she is asked to kneel facing the audience and beg for mercy.
She confesses and begs for forgiveness saying that she knows she has done
wrong, and won’t do it again.

Mother Superior interrupts: “It’s not enough to be sorry, Michelle.
You must demonstrate it, too. You have not asked for punishment.” Michelle,
continues to plead for mercy, admit to her guilt. But ask for punishment?
She has no intention of doing that!

Sister Agnes says: “The penalty will rise the more she begs.” But
Michelle begs a lot, knowing already what she faces: she’s going to be
punished on the bare backside in front of this large audience. It even
includes this boy she was seeing on the sly and hoping to impress! He’s
Jean Leveque, a French boy her mother really doesn’t approve of, dark,
handsome in an ugly kind of way, with coarse, Quebecois manners . . . Of
course, he is just loving this, and it’s written all over his face. She’d
taken the lead in their relationship, even to the extent of unzipping him
and handling his cock in recent weeks. She’s told him she wants to see him
come, and promised him everything in return, though strictly on her agenda;
but so far she hadn’t even let him cop a few feels, nothing more than a
little squeezing of her tits. Now, he’s sure, he’s going to do much better.
He’ll see her tits, bare. Her ass. He’ll even get to see her “thing” when
her panties come off, he exults. Is it hairy? He thinks, oh I bet it is.

Since she’s been accused of blasphemy, a washbowl is brought out,
and a large cake of soap is produced. It’s rubbed vigorously on a washcloth
until there’s a huge amount of foam. She’s told to open her mouth. It is
washed out with soap and water, filling it with a horrid metallic taste and
making her tongue swell.

“Bend over, Michelle,” she is ordered. She’s to get a preliminary
three dozen strokes with a paddle for general, persistent mischiefmaking,
it is explained by Sister Agnes. But when they have her lift her
nightdress, there’s stifled laughter. Everyone can see her panties are a
disgrace, with a huge wet spot marking the seat. Some know why, others are
quite baffled. There’s whispering, and Michelle clearly hears an older girl
telling her companions: “Kinky! Some women become sexually aroused by the
prospect of being punished.” She still has to bend over and touch her toes
for those strokes across her damp, stained panties. It’s painful,
humiliating. She tries not to yelp aloud. It hurts, but she does her best
not to shriek.

“Now, Michelle, for your real spanking, it has to be a bare bottom
caning, of course,” she’s informed. There’s a ripple of happy talk in the
audience. The boys in particular are very amused at this. Michelle is told
to bend over again, and her panties are pulled down for her. But the
sisters won’t stop there. Sister Agnes listens as one of her other teachers
argues that the tall, shy schoolgirl should have the extra humiliation of
being stripped naked in front of her friends. Several others nod in
agreement. To them, that’s the proper humiliation of the devil-worshipping,
heathen youngster; to be bare for all to see, since she revels so much in
sexual mischief.

Boyfriend Leveque loves this, the other boys as well. And the
workmen? You can imagine how amusing they find the idea. They’re always
quietly ogling the attractive girls, and now one of more attractive ones is
going to be stripped in front of them. Great!

Michelle’s face is crimson as the nightdress is pulled off and she
is left standing completely naked. There’s a stunned silence, but all eyes
are on her. The gym is filled with lustful deep breathing, broken only by a
few girlish giggles. She’s pale, her thin, trim body untouched by the sun
in a while. Since the nuns know she’ll struggle, she’s strapped to a
trestle with her legs wide open, arms outstretched. Girls are whispering.

Now it’s just a question of ‘how many strokes with the cane?’ The
nuns start to discuss it. They ask the front row of the audience. Numbers
fly around. 25? 50? 100? It’s easily decided that 100 is the right place to
start, with extras promised if she misbehaves during her thrashing.

Sister Agnes proceeds to punish her very spankable bottom severely,
until her backside is a fire-engine red color. Jean Leveque’s erection
looks ready to explode in his pants, and many other boys are fidgeting.
They want to watch, but they also need relief. Girls aren’t having quite
the same problem: they can sit in their wet panties with less discomfort,
after all.

Michelle is the one who’s having the biggest problem. Her backside
is on fire. But Sister Agnes doesn’t relent. About half-way through, she
pulls her from the trestle and ties her over a vaulting horse, her bottom
even more stretched. A thin bamboo cane, then a razor strap are used on her
until her buttocks are swollen and blistered.

To add to the agony, an assistant wipes her bottom with cotton
wool dipped in cooling alcohol . . . and then a generous amount of granular
table salt is applied over her rear. Then, Sister Agnes resumes the
paddling with a thin, flat fraternity style paddle. Each swat drives the
salt crystals into her inflamed skin. The stinging is outright agonizing.

They decide she must be gagged, because she’s howling with pain and
fear as they brutalize her with each swat of the paddle. After about two
dozen or so swats on the salty wounds, Sister inspects the damage and
shrugs.

“If this was 1492, or 1574, my girl, you’d really have something to
be complaining about. For those mortal sins you are guilty of, I think
you’d be handed directly to the Inquisition.” Michelle is staring,
bug-eyed, unable to protest through her gag. Sister Agnes tells her, and
everyone else, “And those sins are no less deserving of punishment today.
Oh, just think child, how much worse it would have been . . . You’d be in
chains. You’d have been flogged head to toe, flogged bloody, until you
looked like a slab of beef. And maybe tortured with hot irons in very
personal places to make you speak up and repent. And, who knows? Maybe your
next stop would see you being paraded through the town, naked for all to
see, then tightly bound to the stake, with the firewood piled waist high.
That was the penalty for heresy and deviant sexuality, my child. A
disgraceful, shocking, public death. No mercy, because the heretic has
rejected the holy mother church, and all its abundant mercies.”

She then takes up the final punishment implement, a thin dressage
whip from a local tack shop. Sister Agnes says quite bluntly: “See this,
Michelle? I propose to use it to skin your heretic behind, so it’s quite
raw.” She waves aside belated protests from Michelle’s parents, and begins
lashing her victim’s bottom slowly, yet thoroughly. “This is what you two
should have done when she started to misbehave, years ago. I’m only having
to go so far with the little minx, because you failed to do what was
necessary . . .”

Michelle receives another fifty thin stripes across her bottom,
horizontally and at a slight diagonal, with sister Agnes walking back and
forth and lashing from each side. The sister makes sure the tip of the whip
bites into Michelle’s bottom itself, and doesn’t wrap around her hips. A
more concentrated blow is better, she obviously feels. But that’s not all.
She finishes up by giving her another two dozen lashes, aligned vertically,
so the strokes produce lines on her buttocks running from her waist down to
the junction with her upper thighs. This makes her bottom look like she sat
on a red hot grid of wires. At several locations, the overlapping stripes
have broken the skin, and a reapplication of alcohol and salt to those
spots prevents the wounds from going septic but adds, of course, to the
agony.

Michelle’s constant weeping and begging do her no good. Even when
she’s hysterical, and tears are pouring from her, when her pitiful shrieks
and yelps are causing some of the audience to exchange looks of doubt and
concern. She’s whipped until she’s bleeding noticeably; because nothing
less would do.

And after? She’s left on show. Just for a few hours, strapped to
the trestle with her naked bottom in the air. What better way to atone for
her sins? There’s plenty of laughter as the whole school comes to visit,
over and over. Guests are brought by too: mothers, deliverymen, and lots of
others whose voices she doesn’t know. She can’t see them in her bent over
position, and is secretly relieved. She’d rather not know.

At the final bell of the afternoon, Sister Agnes returns. After
looking Michelle over, she sees to it that the girl is released. But she
also insists that Michelle be made to walk back to her class like this. She
limps down crowded corridors, through the exiting throngs of laughing or
scornful schoolgirls, her hands roped behind her, still quite naked. At the
classroom, her form teacher, two French prefects and her parents are
waiting. With them, her older sister Maureen. From their grim expressions,
she can see this is not going to be a happy family reunion.

Her parents have been given the basket with her clothes, the gooey,
aromatic panties right on top. But they wait silently, making no protest,
as the other three women slap her around, pinch her — her mischief has
earned them all a demerit — then bend her backwards over a desk, the
prefects holding her down. They spread her legs, and hold her tight. All
eyes are fixed on her furry triangle. Michelle suddenly realizes their
intention: It’s so her pubis and breasts can be paddled. The teacher knows
her business, and has a fat leather paddle to do the work. She uses it with
vigor, sure to cause lasting bruises. Maureen has a twisted, sick smile on
her face. She’s trying not to laugh, it seems.

The blows to her breasts sound like slaps, because of the softness
of her flesh. But painful nonetheless. Her skin is bright red, and her
breasts noticeably swollen before the teacher is satisfied. Now she turns
her attention to the girl’s bulging, gaping sex. Michelle’s prominent hairy
mons is the prime target: it receives solid strokes that echo round the
room. Her earlier caning had stimulated her more than she’d care to admit.
And laying strapped to the trestle, she’s lapsed into some very erotic
dreams. So it’s not long before Michelle starts to feel excited at this
direct, shocking stimulus. She tries to suppress her feelings. But she
can’t. It’s intense, and the look in the eyes of the teacher and the two
prefects is disturbing. They’re angry, but they’re willing her on. There’s
nothing more they’d like: They want to see her disgrace herself. Maureen
has stepped back a little, her face flushed with excitement.

Michelle can’t meet her parents’ eyes. And so she suffers the
dreadful humiliation of coming, right there in front of her parents and
sister, though the strangely impassive duo just continue to stare, ignoring
each other, and make no comment. Maureen? She may have come too, judging by
how hot and bothered she looks.

There’s no mistaking the fact their daughter is having an orgasm,
at all: there are distinctive smells and trickles of milky liquid, there’s
flushing and heavy sweating, there are spasms and little cries, leading up
to a long shivering, trembling fit that shakes the desk and forces the
prefects to grab her even more tightly. Michelle’s eyes close at the moment
of orgasm, and she cries out: “Oh, oh, oh!!!!”

When Michelle’s frantic breathing slows, the form teacher says with
bitter contempt: “See? That’s the kind of girl your daughter is turning
into. A pervert.” The thick dribbles of liquid on her thighs give it all
away. Maureen licks her lips, and wipes her brow. She’s the first to speak:
“Get dressed, Michelle. We’re completely ashamed of you.”