Bottomsworth Academy

Mr Robertson was humming happily as he parked his car on the school grounds. He felt a spur of motivation and excitement as he turned off the ignition. Something which he hadn’t felt since he took the position of junior dean nearly 8 years ago. Hed seen firsthand the development the academy was taking, his frustration had reached a boiling point. Forcing action over resignation. A radical change was needed. He longed for the respect that came with the name, the recognition of a position as a junior dean for a high performing academy.

This semester was going to be vastly different, he thought to himself.

He had successfully convinced the school-board and town council to reimplement corporal punishment for “undesirable behaviour” at the academy. It took some convincing and hard work, but had ultimately been successful. A reform was sorely needed after all. The academy had fallen from grace, degrading itself from the first choice of overly-ambitious parents to now being the meeting point for delinquents, as a result the academy ratings had dropped to rock-bottom.

Which was slightly ironic, he thought to himself as he approached the school hall. Passing the bright bold letters reading:

“Bottomsworth Academy”

The actual specifics of the trial reform had not been fully formalized. Students and guardians were notified of updated dress codes and new rules for code of conduct, enforced by the discretion of the senior staff. Given that the academy, in effect was a last resort establishment, the consent forms sent to guardians had been universally approved, under the threat of expulsions or transfer to other academies.

The consent forms were admittedly vague compared to the fiery speech he had performed in the town-hall. He needed political approval as leverage against the more “modern women” in the school-board. Especially Miss Helen Graves, the new stuck up math teacher. That had fought against the proposal teeth and nail. Claiming the reform would alienate new students and feel traumatic to the enrolled students themselves. For all the hassle she had caused him, he wouldn’t mind pulling her over his lap and show her a bit of discipline himself.

New school uniforms were put in place to promote comradery and prevent bullying, but he had never actually specified what these would look like. Punishment was to be performed proportional to the offence, which effectively meant he could choose whatever he saw fit. Any punishment should be documented in detail in the trial period, but methodology was undisclosed. He pushed his shoulder bag towards him, checking that the contents were all there, a heavy wooden paddle, a polaroid camera, and a thick leatherbound book that read “disciplinary ledger”.

He felt the motivation add pressure on his trousers, he had to admit the motivation wasn’t exactly pure. He often fantasized about being a disciplinarian. The thought of raising skirts and pulling down panties excited him.

Passing the assembly hall, he glanced inside, noting that the new school uniforms had arrived sorted in large cardboard boxes. Inside were short braid skirts that fluttered in the wind, tight white shirts, black knee socks, PE bloomers that crept up all the right places, and white cotton panties ‘accidentally’ undersized for young bottoms.

As the bell rang, he sat at his desk positively beaming, brushing the wooden paddle, patting the large photo-album.

He flipped over the ledger, so much potential, so many lovely memories to be built…