A short story of boarding school life based loosely on a true event
In the misty chill of an October morning in the Cotswolds, Harrington Hall Boarding School’s sixth-form girls embarked on their weekly cross-country run. The year was 1980, and for Charlotte, Amelia, and Victoria—all freshly 18 and on the cusp of university—the five-mile loop through dew-soaked fields and whispering woodland was both punishment and ritual. They wore the regulation kit: thin white cotton t-shirts that quickly clung to damp skin, and those infamous tight blue nylon shorts—stretchy, shiny, and mercilessly form-fitting. The shorts gripped their ample bottoms like glossy paint, accentuating every generous curve. Charlotte’s was the fullest, two plump, rounded cheeks that pushed the fabric to its limit, creating faint creases where thigh met globe. Amelia’s matched in voluptuousness, soft and jiggly with each stride, while Victoria’s fleshy rear completed the trio, the nylon outlining dimples and the gentle sway that came from natural fullness rather than lean muscle.
Their trainers thudded rhythmically on the gravel path, breaths puffing out in white clouds. The cold air bit at exposed thighs, raising goosebumps, while sweat soon bloomed under their arms and down their backs, soaking the white t-shirts until they turned semi-sheer. The shorts rode up with every bound, the thin material wedging slightly between plump cheeks, warm from exertion and already slightly damp. You could hear the subtle squeak of nylon against skin, feel the way the fabric stretched taut over the cushioned swell with each footfall.
Halfway in, deep in the shelter of ancient oaks, Charlotte slowed, chest heaving. “Fuck this,” she gasped, voice hoarse. Amelia grinned, fishing out the secret pack of Marlboro Lights from inside her waistband—the cardboard slightly warm from body heat. She shook three cigarettes free: slender, white-filtered, the tobacco’s faint sweet scent rising even before they were lit. Victoria clicked the cheap lighter, flame dancing yellow against the green gloom. They huddled shoulder-to-shoulder, backs to a mossy trunk, plump bottoms settling onto the rough bark. The wood pressed cool and knobbly through the thin nylon, compressing their full cheeks so the shorts creased deeply at the edges, outlining every soft contour.
Charlotte took the first light, cupping the flame. She drew in deeply—slow, deliberate—the ember flaring bright orange. The smoke hit her lungs with a hot, peppery burn, thick with tar and that unmistakable bitter-sweet tobacco tang. She held it, eyes half-closed, then exhaled in a long, luxurious plume that curled upward, grey and lazy, carrying the sharp, addictive aroma into the damp air. The taste lingered on her tongue, dry and smoky. Amelia went next, inhaling sharply—the smoke rasping down her throat, filling her chest with warmth. She blew out in short, controlled bursts, watching the smoke twist and dissolve among the leaves, the cigarette paper crackling faintly as it burned. Victoria’s drags were shallower at first, the harshness making her cough softly, but soon she settled into the rhythm: inhale, hold, exhale in wispy tendrils that mingled with her friends’. The air grew heavy with the pungent haze—earthy, acrid, clinging to their hair, their t-shirts, the glossy blue shorts. Each puff left a faint dryness on their lips, a nicotine buzz humming through veins like stolen electricity.
Their plump bottoms shifted restlessly on the log, nylon sliding over bark with a soft rasp. The fabric gleamed dully in patches of sunlight, stretched drum-tight over the generous curves, highlighting the way the flesh yielded and rebounded. Sweat trickled down the small of their backs, pooling at the waistband, making the shorts cling even more insistently to the full, rounded undersides.
Then came the crunch of boots on leaves. Miss Thornton emerged like a storm cloud—tall, severe, whistle dangling. “Put. Them. Out.” Her voice cracked like a whip. Cigarettes were crushed frantically under trainers, but the smoke still hung, betraying them. “Changing rooms. March.”
The walk back was agony—shame burning hotter than the run. Their plump bottoms swayed heavily in the tight shorts, each step causing a subtle bounce, the nylon now slick with sweat and chafing against warm skin.
Inside the echoing changing room, tiles cold underfoot, the door locked with a decisive click. Miss Thornton reached up for the old black plimsoll: thick rubber sole, canvas upper faded almost to charcoal, the legendary slipper smelling faintly of liniment and decades of discipline. “Over the bench.
The girls bent, palms flat on scarred wood, backs arched, presenting their bottoms prominently. The blue nylon gleamed under the fluorescent lights, stretched so tightly that every plump curve was perfectly delineated—the deep cleft between cheeks, the generous swell, the slight dimpling at the sides.
Charlotte first. Miss Thornton drew back the plimsoll and swung. The first crack rang out—sharp, wet-sounding against the nylon. The rubber sole slapped hard across the right cheek, compressing the plump flesh beneath the fabric in an instant, sending a white-hot sting blooming outward. Charlotte gasped, the burn immediate and vicious, radiating through layers of nylon straight to skin. The second landed on the left, a resounding thwack that flattened the full globe, the impact vibrating up her spine. The shorts transmitted every nuance: the way the rubber gripped and dragged slightly, the deep thud that made her ample cheeks jiggle inside their shiny prison. Third, fourth, fifth, sixth—each measured, overlapping slightly, the heat building to a throbbing furnace. By the end her bottom felt swollen, pulsing, the nylon now hot to the touch, creased from the blows.
Amelia followed, breath already ragged. The first slipper cracked across her right cheek with a meaty smack, the rubber molding to the curve through the taut fabric, igniting a fierce sting that prickled like needles. She yelped, legs trembling as the second mirrored it, layering fire on fire. The plimsoll whistled before each impact, then thudded, compressing her voluptuous flesh, the nylon sliding minutely with every strike. The lower swings targeted the tender undercurve, making her plumpness bounce and quiver visibly through the shorts. By six, her rear burned like hot coals, every heartbeat sending fresh waves of heat.
Victoria last, quivering already. The opening thwack exploded across her right globe, the rubber biting through nylon to deliver a deep, bruising sting that made her cry out softly. The left followed, symmetric and merciless. Each subsequent blow amplified the ache—the fabric growing warmer, stickier with sweat, the plump cheeks rippling with every resounding crack. The final one landed squarely across both, a thunderous slap that left her entire bottom throbbing, swollen beneath the glossy blue prison.
They straightened slowly, hands hovering, not quite daring to rub. The air smelled of rubber, sweat, and faint tobacco residue. Miss Thornton replaced the slipper. “No more. Next time, bare.”
The girls nodded, wincing with every movement, the vivid sting lingering long after the door clicked shut—a sensory memory etched into flesh, fabric, and mind.
Their trainers thudded rhythmically on the gravel path, breaths puffing out in white clouds. The cold air bit at exposed thighs, raising goosebumps, while sweat soon bloomed under their arms and down their backs, soaking the white t-shirts until they turned semi-sheer. The shorts rode up with every bound, the thin material wedging slightly between plump cheeks, warm from exertion and already slightly damp. You could hear the subtle squeak of nylon against skin, feel the way the fabric stretched taut over the cushioned swell with each footfall.
Halfway in, deep in the shelter of ancient oaks, Charlotte slowed, chest heaving. “Fuck this,” she gasped, voice hoarse. Amelia grinned, fishing out the secret pack of Marlboro Lights from inside her waistband—the cardboard slightly warm from body heat. She shook three cigarettes free: slender, white-filtered, the tobacco’s faint sweet scent rising even before they were lit. Victoria clicked the cheap lighter, flame dancing yellow against the green gloom. They huddled shoulder-to-shoulder, backs to a mossy trunk, plump bottoms settling onto the rough bark. The wood pressed cool and knobbly through the thin nylon, compressing their full cheeks so the shorts creased deeply at the edges, outlining every soft contour.
Charlotte took the first light, cupping the flame. She drew in deeply—slow, deliberate—the ember flaring bright orange. The smoke hit her lungs with a hot, peppery burn, thick with tar and that unmistakable bitter-sweet tobacco tang. She held it, eyes half-closed, then exhaled in a long, luxurious plume that curled upward, grey and lazy, carrying the sharp, addictive aroma into the damp air. The taste lingered on her tongue, dry and smoky. Amelia went next, inhaling sharply—the smoke rasping down her throat, filling her chest with warmth. She blew out in short, controlled bursts, watching the smoke twist and dissolve among the leaves, the cigarette paper crackling faintly as it burned. Victoria’s drags were shallower at first, the harshness making her cough softly, but soon she settled into the rhythm: inhale, hold, exhale in wispy tendrils that mingled with her friends’. The air grew heavy with the pungent haze—earthy, acrid, clinging to their hair, their t-shirts, the glossy blue shorts. Each puff left a faint dryness on their lips, a nicotine buzz humming through veins like stolen electricity.
Their plump bottoms shifted restlessly on the log, nylon sliding over bark with a soft rasp. The fabric gleamed dully in patches of sunlight, stretched drum-tight over the generous curves, highlighting the way the flesh yielded and rebounded. Sweat trickled down the small of their backs, pooling at the waistband, making the shorts cling even more insistently to the full, rounded undersides.
Then came the crunch of boots on leaves. Miss Thornton emerged like a storm cloud—tall, severe, whistle dangling. “Put. Them. Out.” Her voice cracked like a whip. Cigarettes were crushed frantically under trainers, but the smoke still hung, betraying them. “Changing rooms. March.”
The walk back was agony—shame burning hotter than the run. Their plump bottoms swayed heavily in the tight shorts, each step causing a subtle bounce, the nylon now slick with sweat and chafing against warm skin.
Inside the echoing changing room, tiles cold underfoot, the door locked with a decisive click. Miss Thornton reached up for the old black plimsoll: thick rubber sole, canvas upper faded almost to charcoal, the legendary slipper smelling faintly of liniment and decades of discipline. “Over the bench.
The girls bent, palms flat on scarred wood, backs arched, presenting their bottoms prominently. The blue nylon gleamed under the fluorescent lights, stretched so tightly that every plump curve was perfectly delineated—the deep cleft between cheeks, the generous swell, the slight dimpling at the sides.
Charlotte first. Miss Thornton drew back the plimsoll and swung. The first crack rang out—sharp, wet-sounding against the nylon. The rubber sole slapped hard across the right cheek, compressing the plump flesh beneath the fabric in an instant, sending a white-hot sting blooming outward. Charlotte gasped, the burn immediate and vicious, radiating through layers of nylon straight to skin. The second landed on the left, a resounding thwack that flattened the full globe, the impact vibrating up her spine. The shorts transmitted every nuance: the way the rubber gripped and dragged slightly, the deep thud that made her ample cheeks jiggle inside their shiny prison. Third, fourth, fifth, sixth—each measured, overlapping slightly, the heat building to a throbbing furnace. By the end her bottom felt swollen, pulsing, the nylon now hot to the touch, creased from the blows.
Amelia followed, breath already ragged. The first slipper cracked across her right cheek with a meaty smack, the rubber molding to the curve through the taut fabric, igniting a fierce sting that prickled like needles. She yelped, legs trembling as the second mirrored it, layering fire on fire. The plimsoll whistled before each impact, then thudded, compressing her voluptuous flesh, the nylon sliding minutely with every strike. The lower swings targeted the tender undercurve, making her plumpness bounce and quiver visibly through the shorts. By six, her rear burned like hot coals, every heartbeat sending fresh waves of heat.
Victoria last, quivering already. The opening thwack exploded across her right globe, the rubber biting through nylon to deliver a deep, bruising sting that made her cry out softly. The left followed, symmetric and merciless. Each subsequent blow amplified the ache—the fabric growing warmer, stickier with sweat, the plump cheeks rippling with every resounding crack. The final one landed squarely across both, a thunderous slap that left her entire bottom throbbing, swollen beneath the glossy blue prison.
They straightened slowly, hands hovering, not quite daring to rub. The air smelled of rubber, sweat, and faint tobacco residue. Miss Thornton replaced the slipper. “No more. Next time, bare.”
The girls nodded, wincing with every movement, the vivid sting lingering long after the door clicked shut—a sensory memory etched into flesh, fabric, and mind.
