At the esteemed Primrose Hall Boarding School for Girls, nestled in the rolling hills of Dorset, two mischievous students, Lavinia "Vinny" Darkbloom and Gertie "Ginger" Specklebottom, were notorious for their rebellious antics. Vinny was a striking girl with dark hair piled high on her head in a messy bun that looked like a bird’s nest after a storm, while Ginger sported ginger plaits that swung like fiery pendulums and a pair of round glasses that magnified her cheeky grin. Both girls wore the school’s tight grey trousers, a uniform piece so thin it squeaked with every step, accentuating their plump bottoms in a way that made them giggle with delight. The trousers clung to their wobbly curves like clingfilm on a pair of puddings, earning them the nickname "The Squeaky Sinners" among their peers.
One dreary Monday evening, as the girls lounged in their dorm room pretending to study poetry (but actually playing a game of who could recite the most lines of "Jabberwocky" in a silly voice), Vinny had a naughty idea. “Ginger, I’m bored to bits! Let’s start a secret club—a smoking club! We’ll call it the Smoky Sinners Society!” she declared, her dark bun wobbling as she bounced with excitement.
Ginger adjusted her glasses, her ginger plaits swinging as she clapped her hands in glee. “Oh, Vinny, you’re a proper genius! We’ll puff away like bandits! But where’ll we get the fags?”
Vinny grinned and produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes she’d swiped from the caretaker’s toolbox during a sneaky raid. “Mr. Fumblethumbs won’t notice—he’s too busy arguing with the lawnmower.”
The girls chose the old art supply closet on the second floor as their hideout, a cramped space that smelled of paint and turpentine. They turned it into their den, dragging in a tattered canvas, a wobbly stool they dubbed “The Smoky Throne,” and a cracked paint can for an ashtray. Every night after curfew, they’d sneak through the halls, Vinny’s dark bun bobbing like a buoy in a storm, Ginger’s plaits swinging like fiery metronomes, their tight trousers squeaking and their plump bottoms bouncing like two overfilled balloons as they tiptoed past the sleeping prefects.
In the art closet, the Smoky Sinners Society came to life. Vinny, always the dramatic one, would light her cigarette with a theatrical flourish, pretending she was a mysterious artist in a smoky Parisian café. She’d take a long, exaggerated drag, her cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk with a stash of nuts, then blow out a wobbly smoke ring that looked more like a squashed jellybean. “Look at me, Ginger! I’m a bohemian painter!” she’d croon, striking a pose that made her trousers squeak like a creaky door and her dark bun wobble precariously.
Ginger, meanwhile, was a giggling wreck. She’d inhale too deeply, her eyes watering behind her glasses as she coughed up a storm, the smoke swirling around her like a foggy halo, her ginger plaits bouncing with each hack. “Blimey, Vinny, this stings worse than Miss Grumbleguts’ boiled sprouts!” she’d splutter, flapping her hands as if shooing away a swarm of bees. The tiny closet filled with a thick haze, the girls laughing through the fog, their plump bottoms jiggling on the stool as they passed the cigarette back and forth. They’d take turns blowing smoke out a tiny vent, pretending they were witches brewing a smoky potion, their giggles bouncing off the walls.
As the haze thickened, Vinny leaned back, her dark bun tilting like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and whispered, “Don’t you feel so naughty, Ginger? We’re proper rebels now!” Ginger nodded, pushing up her glasses, her plaits swinging as she grinned. “Oh aye, Vinny! But what if we get caught? Headmaster Whackbottom’ll tan our hides!” Vinny smirked, taking another drag, the smoke curling around her like a mischievous halo. “He’ll probably slipper us till our bottoms glow like the sun! But it’s worth it for the thrill, isn’t it?” Ginger giggled, her glasses fogging up from the smoke. “Too right! Let’s just hope he doesn’t catch us red-handed!”
For a week, the Smoky Sinners Society thrived in secret, their smoking sessions growing sillier by the night. They even made up a club chant: “Smoky Sinners, puff puff puff—light ‘em up, we’re tough enough!” But their luck ran out one stormy Tuesday night. Headmaster Whackbottom, a stern man with a face like a grumpy badger and a slipper that was the stuff of nightmares, had been suspicious for days. He’d caught a whiff of smoke while inspecting the second floor for a squeaky floorboard and followed the scent straight to the art closet.
As Vinny blew a particularly wonky smoke ring—more of a smoke scribble—and Ginger coughed so hard her glasses slipped down her nose and her plaits flew wildly, the closet door burst open with a crash. There stood Headmaster Whackbottom, his slipper in hand, his eyes blazing with fury. “What in Primrose Hall’s name is going on here?!” he roared, his voice shaking the paint cans on the shelves.
The girls froze, the cigarette dangling from Ginger’s fingers like a tiny white flag of surrender. Vinny tried to hide behind the canvas, but her dark bun and plump bottom stuck out like a beacon, the tight trousers giving her away. “We’re… um… painting with… smoke effects?” Ginger stammered, her voice as convincing as a paper boat in a tsunami.
“Painting, my foot!” Whackbottom bellowed, snatching the cigarette and grinding it under his boot. “You two are in for a slippering that’ll make your bottoms glow like beacons! To my office, NOW!”
As the girls trudged to the Headmaster’s office, their tight trousers squeaking a sorrowful tune with every step, Whackbottom followed behind, his slipper gripped tightly in his hand. He watched their plump bottoms wobble ahead of him, Vinny’s dark bun bobbing like a storm-tossed ship, Ginger’s plaits swinging like fiery pendulums, the tight grey fabric accentuating every bounce. *These two are the naughtiest girls I’ve ever seen,* he thought, his eyes narrowing. *Always up to no good, flaunting their rebellion in those ridiculous trousers. Smoking, of all things—it’s a disgrace to Primrose Hall’s values!* He shook his head, a grim satisfaction settling in. *A good slippering will teach them a lesson they won’t forget. Those bottoms are practically begging for discipline.*
When they reached the office—a stern room with dark wood paneling, a portrait of a frowning founder, and a wide desk that had seen countless punishments—Whackbottom pointed to the desk. “Bend over, side by side! You’ll each get thirty whacks, and I’ll make sure you regret every puff!” The girls bent over the desk, their tight trousers stretched to their limit, their plump bottoms presented like two grey moons side by side, Vinny’s dark bun tilting comically to one side, Ginger’s plaits dangling over the desk, her glasses slipping down her nose. Whackbottom’s eyes gleamed with stern intent as he surveyed the scene. *Perfect targets for a proper lesson,* he thought, gripping the slipper—a fearsome black beast, worn from years of discipline. *I’ll slipper them to great effect—discipline must be upheld, and these two will be a shining example.*
He started with Vinny, raising the slipper and bringing it down with a thunderous THWACK! Vinny yelped, her bottom wobbling like a jelly in a hurricane, her dark bun bouncing as the sound of the slipper echoed like a drumbeat. “Ouch! My poor cheeks—they’re too artistic for this!” she wailed, earning a glare from Whackbottom. THWACK! He moved to Ginger, the slipper landing with a resounding SMACK! Ginger squealed, her plaits swinging wildly, her glasses fogging up as her bottom jiggled like a blancmange in a storm. “Ow! My poor specs—they’re steaming up!” she cried, the crowd of imaginary spectators in her mind giggling at her plight.
THWACK! SMACK! THWACK! SMACK! Whackbottom alternated between the girls, the slipper raining down in a rhythmic assault, each strike sending their bottoms bouncing, the tight trousers squeaking like a chorus of mice. By the fifteenth whack, Vinny was reciting a made-up poem to cope: “Oh, my bottom’s red and sore, I’ll never smoke no more, I swear! I’ll paint with brushes, not with smoke, I’ll even hug a bloke!” Ginger, meanwhile, was babbling nonsense: “I’ll join the chess club! I’ll scrub the halls! I’ll even eat Miss Grumbleguts’ sprouts!”
THWACK! SMACK! THWACK! SMACK! Whackbottom continued, his arm swinging like a metronome, the slipper smacking their bottoms with a rhythm that could’ve set a dance tune. *This is for the good of the school,* he thought, a stern satisfaction in his chest. *Smoking is a filthy habit—unladylike and dangerous. A slippering like this will burn the lesson into their minds.* By the twenty-fifth whack, their bottoms were glowing like twin suns, the thin grey fabric practically steaming from the heat. THWACK! SMACK! THWACK! SMACK! The final five were the hardest, each one leaving their bottoms a fiery red, their trousers squeaking a defeated tune as they stood up, tears in their eyes, rubbing their sore backsides.
When it was over, the girls stood side by side, their plump bottoms blazing, their tight trousers now even tighter from the swelling. Whackbottom glared at them, slipper still in hand, his thoughts resolute. *Let’s hope that did the trick,* he mused. *If not, my slipper will be ready for an encore.* “Let this be a lesson—no more smoking, or I’ll tan your hides so hard you’ll be standing through lessons till summer!”
Before heading back to their dorm, Vinny and Ginger made a detour to the nearest bathroom, their bottoms too sore to ignore. They locked the door and stood side by side in front of the mirror, gingerly pulling down their tight trousers to inspect the damage. Vinny winced as she twisted to look, her dark bun wobbling as she gasped. “Blimey, Ginger, look at this! My bottom’s redder than a ripe tomato! It’s like a flaming sunset back there!” Ginger, adjusting her glasses and craning her neck, let out a squeak as she saw her own backside. “Cor, Vinny, mine’s the same! It’s all blotchy like a strawberry patch, and—oh, look at those slipper marks! They’re like little red stripes—Headmaster Whackbottom’s left his signature!” The girls giggled through their winces, poking at their sore bottoms and comparing the shades of red, their trousers squeaking as they pulled them back up. “We look like we’ve sat on a hot stove!” Vinny said, and Ginger nodded, her plaits bouncing. “Aye, but we’re still the naughtiest girls in Primrose Hall, aren’t we?”
The next morning, the Squeaky Sinners faced a new challenge: sitting through Miss Grumbleguts’ history lesson on the Norman Conquest. The classroom was filled with rows of hard wooden desks, and the other girls were already whispering about the duo’s punishment, some with sympathy, others with barely concealed giggles. Vinny and Ginger hobbled in, their plump bottoms still glowing from the night before, their tight trousers squeaking a mournful tune with every step. They eyed their seats with dread, knowing their fiery backsides were in for a rough time.
Vinny went first, lowering herself gingerly, her dark bun tilting as her face contorted into a comical grimace, as if she were sitting on a bed of nettles. The moment her bottom touched the seat, she let out a high-pitched squeal, her trousers squeaking so loudly it sounded like a rubber duck being stepped on. “YOWCH! It’s like sitting on a griddle!” she yelped, shooting back up and rubbing her bottom, her plump cheeks wobbling as she hopped from foot to foot. The other girls burst into laughter, some snorting into their textbooks, others whispering, “Look at Vinny—she’s doing the hot-bottom hop!” Miss Grumbleguts, a dour woman with a face like a pickled lemon, glared over her spectacles. “Miss Darkbloom, sit down this instant, or I’ll send you back to the Headmaster!” Vinny groaned, attempting to sit again, but she hovered an inch above the seat, her bottom too sore to make full contact, her trousers squeaking a pitiful tune.
Ginger, determined not to be outdone, tried a different approach. She grabbed her scarf, folded it into a tiny cushion, and placed it on the seat with a flourish. “Behold, my throne of mercy!” she declared, but as she lowered herself, the scarf slipped out from under her, and her bottom hit the desk with a loud THUD. “OWIE!” she howled, her glasses fogging up, her plaits swinging as her trousers squeaked like a kazoo orchestra, her plump bottom bouncing as she leapt up, clutching her backside. “It’s like sitting on a blacksmith’s forge!” she wailed, doing a little dance of pain, her face as red as her bottom. The other girls roared with laughter, some clapping, others mimicking her dance, one cheeky third-year shouting, “Ginger’s doing the Squeaky Shuffle!” Miss Grumbleguts slammed her ruler on the desk. “Miss Specklebottom, enough of this nonsense! Sit down, or I’ll have you writing lines till supper!” Ginger whimpered, hovering over her seat like Vinny, her bottom refusing to make full contact with the hard wood.
The rest of the class was a mix of giggles and stern reprimands, the other girls whispering and snickering every time Vinny or Ginger shifted, their trousers squeaking a symphony of pain. Miss Grumbleguts, though visibly annoyed, couldn’t help but smirk at their predicament, muttering under her breath, “Serves them right for smoking—let’s see if they try that again!” By the end of the lesson, Vinny and Ginger were still hovering, their bottoms too sore to sit properly, vowing to steer clear of cigarettes. That night, as they lay on their stomachs in the dorm, Ginger whispered, “Vinny, next time, let’s start a secret doodling club. Less smoke, more sketches!” And with that, the girls burst into quiet giggles, their squeaky trousers serenading the night with a defeated tune.