A Very Painful Lesson

One of RT Mason's finest stories. I took this and the next story from Dimitri's brilliant British Spanking Magazines blog http://britishspankingmagazines.blogspot.com/?zx=1c49697f194a4801 Dimitri is much better at this than me and I am grateful to him for his diligence. It comes from an early eigthties Janus. Poor Susan gets her just desserts more than once. In the original she is told to wear gym shorts for her caning but I always prefer knickers - even if they are taken down pretty quaickly - so I've changed it accordingly and hope RT won't mind!

A Very Painful Lesson
by R.T. Mason

THE NOTEPAPER bore the School Crest (St Stephens School, Eastminster. Headmaster: R.A. Harrison, M.A.). The note was short and very much to the point:

'This afternoon (Friday, 15th May) at 4.30pm there will be a Formal Headmaster's Caning in my office. As is customary on such occasions you are expected, in the interests of school discipline, to be present. If there is any pressing reason why you cannot, will you please let me know immediately.

The pupil involved is Miss Susan Roberts, Lower Sixth.

Signed: Robert Harrison,
Headmaster.'

The note in its innocent brown envelope was in the pigeonhole of every male member of staff that Friday morning. (Women teachers of course would not be required to attend a Formal Caning, canings in general being regarded by the Head as strictly a male preserve.) The innocent brown envelopes had been opened one by one and one by one, like little bombshells, producing sounds of shocked amazement, ranging from sharply indrawn breath and low whistles to varied exclamations: 'Good Lord!'; 'Incredible!'; even 'Fucking Hell!' from Mr Dale (Maths). The sounds of shock were mixed, though, with here and there noises of undoubted excitement – as with Mr Fulton (History) who sharply stuck an elbow into the ribs of his crony Mr Stanley (Geography) while exclaiming, 'Something not to be missed, Ron. Susan Roberts! Mindblowing! Think of that bum...!'

What might be deduced from all this was that the announcement on that crested notepaper was something out of the ordinary, and this was certainly correct. A Formal Caning was far and away the most severe punishment meted out at St Stephens and was given only rarely. It was rare indeed for a boy to get it; but for a girl... For a girl to be bent over the Head's desk in front of the assembled male staff – well, you needed a very good memory to remember the last time that had occurred.

And more than all this of course was the name on the note. Susan Roberts. Because really she was one of the last girls you would expect to do anything remotely deserving of a Formal Caning. High spirited at times, yes, but for most masters she was a hard-working, well-motivated girl, as well as being friendly and charming. Not only that but she was also one of the most attractive girls in the school, her youthful pretty features – hazel-green eyes, pert full-lipped mouth – framed by curling trimly-shaped chestnut hair with just a touch of auburn.

And that wasn't all, for below there was, too, a trim shapely figure firmed up by her twin hobbies of gymnastics and athletics. A slender figure except for her backside which, again no doubt as a result of that athletic activity, was well-developed with a full taut flare to the cheeks. Indeed most masters who had seen those shapely hindquarters in buttock-moulding gym or athletics shorts – or indeed in a skin-tight swimsuit – would rate Susan's backside quite as highly as her pretty face. Which is really saying something.

Hence indeed Jack Fulton's excited, 'Think of that bum!' – for he and Ron Evans were in fact in the habit of paying special visits to the gym during Susan's practice sessions for the express purpose of gazing on that delectable part of her. Because when pretty Susan got working, in her energetic way, on the vaulting horse or bars, her firm limbs soon bathed in a light sheen of perspiration, those ultra-tight pale green shorts would inevitably, in spite of embarrassed tuggings, start sliding further and further up off the ripe bottom cheeks and up into the tight crack of her bum. It was a riveting sight for these two ardent admirers of young female athleticism, routinely producing flushed faces and a pleasant tightness in the front of the trousers.

So for Messrs Fulton and Stanley and all the other masters in the Staff Room that morning the note was indeed nothing less than a bombshell. Stanley, eyes shining, looked at his colleague and licked his lips. 'Could she get it... on the bare?'

Jack Fulton squeezed his arm. 'Could be, old son. Could be!'

Both men shared the same mouthwatering picture: Susan Roberts bent over the Head's desk with that choicest of rears bereft of its knickers and completely bare... and the cane descending...

'Just depends what the young beauty's done. Anyone have any idea?'

One master there did, of course. Mr Pritchard, Senior English Master. He coughed, in his dry schoolmasterly way. 'I think you'll find... it could very well be on the bare...'

Those close to him who heard, turned with shocked eager looks. What had she done then?

The eyes glinted behind those gold-rimmed spectacles, Mr Pritchard's prim mouth pursed then said, 'Moral Turpitude, I think the term is...'

* * *

Somewhat earlier that same Friday morning the subject of all this excitement had herself received a brown enveloped letter, personally delivered to the Roberts' home, No. 17 Frobisher Avenue, by the school caretaker Mr Bert Davis at 7 am. Mrs Roberts found it 15 minutes later when she went in search of the milk, and placed it in front of her daughter as she sat at the breakfast table. 'Not a love-letter, Susan?' she laughed, and then, 'Ah, that sounds like the milk at last. He's late this morning.'

Susan, dry-lipped, tore open the letter as her mother went out again. After the events the last two days she had been expecting something. Not a love-letter, however; something unpleasant, though she didn't know quite what. She took out the folded note and after a moment's hesitation opened it... Yes, it was from school... the School Crest... Headmaster: R.A. Harrison, M.A.... She looked away... Please!... then forced herself to look, to focus her eyes on the black typed print. She gasped, refolded it... got up...

'Aren't you having any cornflakes, dear?' asked her mother, coming back in with the milk.

'N... no... I'm not very hungry.'

Susan went out... straight to the loo, locking the door behind her, and sat down on the flat seat top. She bit her lip, then opened the note again. This time she forced herself to read it properly.

'Dear Miss Roberts: I am writing further to our meeting earlier today. On reflection I am afraid I have no option but to treat this matter as one of the utmost seriousness. Accordingly you will present yourself at my office at 4.30pm on Friday when you will receive a Formal Headmaster's Caning. As is customary with such a punishment all male members of Staff will be present.

Please wear games kit: i.e. a sleeveless cotton top and gym skirt, plus knee-socks and plimsolls. White knickers are always required for Formal Canings.

Signed: R.A. Harrison, Headmaster.'

She re-read the words. She felt sick. She also felt an urgent need to scream. The note was already screwed-up and bedraggled in her damp hands when she stood up and adjusted the blue pleated school skirt and her white school blouse in the mirror. She was in a state of extreme nervousness – sheer fright in fact. She felt sick in her stomach.

Susan unlocked the door and went out, then automatically went through the rest of her routine for school – brush her teeth, brush her hair, put on her school tie, and then the blazer... all with her mind quite divorced from what she was doing, her thoughts fixed only on the horrendous contents of the Head's letter. A Formal Caning... It was so horrible and awful that really it was hardly credible. Had she perhaps imagined it? But she had only to open that fear-crumpled note again, now in her blazer pocket. She said goodbye to her mother. Then, still in that zombie-like state, Susan walked slowly to the bus stop.

Bob, her boyfriend, would be waiting there but really he was the last person she wanted to see. Not that, hopefully, he would know. Because a Formal Caning wasn't announced to the school, only of course... all the masters. Presumably they would all know by now and she would have to face them with that knowledge – in Assembly and then in each of her classes through the day until... at 4.30...

At least she had no lesson today with Mr Pritchard, her English master. Mr Pritchard of the gold-rimmed spectacles and the tight prim mouth which would utter bone-dry sardonic jokes when he was in the mood. Mr Pritchard who did not like being thwarted by a pupil. Mr Pritchard who had of course set her up for this.

* * *

It was easy to say that she could have agreed to what he wanted: what ever since she turned 16 he had first obliquely alluded to and then later quite openly stated. That he wanted to cane her. The problem for Mr Pritchard was that he wasn't allowed to – because caning girls at St Stephens was supposed to be reserved for the Head and Deputy Head. Girls were of course caned at times by other masters, everyone knew that, but only when the pupil had agreed to take this punishment rather than lines or a detention or something. If she agreed then everyone was prepared to turn a blind eye. But Susan hadn't agreed, and she had continued to refuse adamantly all Mr Pritchard's repeated suggestions. He wasn't the only master: others had also from time to time proposed she take a caning – Mr Fulton for instance several times – but none of them had been so persistent as Mr Pritchard. Or, as it turned out, been prepared to be so ruthless in pursuit of what he wanted.

Susan had been caned once at St Stephens – that was by the Head last winter, when she'd been involved in some larking about when they'd gone to another school to give a gymnastics display. Naturally for that sort of offence it hadn't been the desperate horror of a Formal Caning – just a routine caning, in private in the Head's study. It hadn't been pleasant of course – but as Mr Harrison said, it wasn't meant to be pleasant.

Canings were naturally not something girls liked to discuss, but from what she understood from other girls what had happened was his normal routine. She had had to stand in front of him as he sat sideways at his desk and then had to raise her skirt to her waist while he reached out and inserted his thumbs in the waistband of her knickers and drew them down to mid-thigh. And then he had made her stand with her skirt up around her waist and her knickers lowered while he delivered a stern lecture on proper behaviour. It had been awful – embarrassing and humiliating – but that was all part of the punishment. And when he'd finished lecturing her, she had had to walk – still with her knickers down and holding her skirt up – over to the upright chair he had placed out in front of his desk... and then lower herself over the chair seat, and stretch her arms down to place her palms on the carpet on the other side, quivering with fear.

And then those four bottom-juddering slashes with Mr Harrison's whippy rattan cane. It had stung dreadfully and in addition there had been the awful humiliation of having to expose herself like that. But quite obviously it was nothing compared to what a Formal Headmaster's Caning would be... with all those other masters looking on...

That caning, of course, being from the Headmaster, was official and she'd had no choice in the matter: there was no question of refusing. And another fact was that a caning from the Head or Deputy Head was pretty rare – unless you were up to some devilment all the time – whereas Susan had a pretty good idea that with Mr Pritchard, once you'd let him do it he'd be wanting to do it all the time and it would be difficult to say no then.

So she had steadfastly continued to refuse and perhaps it should have been evident to her that his patience had been running out. His last proposal had been made on Tuesday last week. He had kept her back after the lesson, then started going on about her homework not being up to scratch – though she knew it hadn't been that bad. Those eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses had stared at her in that unblinking way that always made her feel she was standing nude in front of him. And then, in that prim voice, he had said it again:

'You know what I think is needed, Miss. A touch of the cane on your backside. It would be over and done with in five minutes and I would then be much more favourably disposed towards you. Whereas now... I'm afraid I regard you as a very annoying young lady.'

She had blushed, but stubbornly said, 'No... Please Sir... I'd rather not...'

Mr Pritchard, red-faced in turn, from suppressed anger, had given her a detention and 200 lines. As she turned to go he added, 'Miss Roberts! I should warn you I am not a man who likes to be crossed. You may well come to regret this stubbornness. Do you understand me?'

She had stammered, 'Y... yes... Yes Sir.' – while of course not understanding at all.

* * *

Because who could imagine that a master could be so heartless and cynical, that he could stoop so low, as to do what Mr Pritchard had done? It had been just a few days later – the Wednesday of this week and the window-cleaners had been in the school. Susan had had Mr Pritchard for English just before morning break and at the end of the class he called her to his desk and asked if she would run a small errand. He wanted some books collected from the room behind the gym where for some reason he had left them. Would she be so kind? He had actually smiled and Susan, eager to make up at last for all those No's she usually had to give to what he wanted, smiled brightly, said, 'Of course, Sir!' and went briskly off.

The room in question was not somewhere you were allowed to go during break so it was going to be deserted; and it was except that one of the window-cleaners was there, cleaning the window on the inside. He was a youngish man, in his twenties, and when Susan arrived for the books he immediately started chatting her up. He wasn't doing it in an unpleasant way and she didn't rush off right away with the books but chatted a bit to him, because anyway it was break time.

But then his behaviour changed, coming on a lot more strongly. He put his arm round her waist and as she tried to disengage it he laughingly said he knew all 17-year-old girls (she had said she was 17) were ticklish. He started tickling her and running his hands over her. She tried to push him away but he was very persistent, and seemed to become suddenly very aroused. He was far stronger than her and he got his hands on her breasts and then as she struggled she felt the sudden shock of a hand up her skirt sleeting up her thighs to their apex. She was struggling wildly in reaction to this ardent mauling when suddenly Mr Pritchard was in the room.

The window-cleaner abruptly stopped – and disappeared. Susan, shocked and upset, was left alone with Mr Pritchard who instantly started upbraiding her in hard tight tones for unseemly and disgraceful conduct.

This second shock on top of what had already happened – it was almost too much to take in. And then Mr Pritchard was saying, 'A caning is what you need, Miss!'

Recovering a little, Susan expostulated that she had simply been struggling to get away from the man but Mr Pritchard, in that tight precise voice, said it hadn't been at all like that. He had clearly seen her co-operating in what was taking place, egging the man on. And the only suitable treatment for such immoral conduct on school property was a sound caning.

Sue started crying at the desperate unfairness of what was obviously happening. Mr Pritchard couldn't possibly believe what he was saying, he had to be making it up – simply as an excuse to cane her. Through her tears she obstinately shook her head.

'No... I'm not going to let you...'

His eyes had glinted angrily. 'You'll be sorry, my girl!' he actually shouted. She wept, still severely shaken from the window-cleaner's assault. He took hold of her arms, rattling her. 'Do you understand me, Miss? This time you'll be sorry!' But she continued to shake her head, trembling all over.

And then the next day – Thursday – there had been that summons to the Head's study. She went in... Mr Pritchard seated with the Head, and both of them with very stern expressions. With a nasty feeling in her stomach Susan stood in front of the Head's desk.

'Sir... you... sent for me.'

In icy tones he said, 'Indeed I did, Miss Roberts. I was wondering if you had any explanation for your disgraceful conduct of yesterday morning?'

Hotly she asked, 'What? Sir... I don't understand...'

'Carrying on like a common guttersnipe, Miss Roberts, that's what I mean!' the Head snapped. 'Not only that but on school premises and during the school day.'

Susan stammered that it was all a mistake but the Head blared: 'No mistake, young lady! I have the word of a senior member of my staff who witnessed your shocking misbehaviour. I also have here,' he held up a sheet of paper, 'a signed statement by the person involved, one Kevin Billings, who came on the premises for the purpose of cleaning windows and who states that in Room G7 during morning break he was invited by you to... engage in sexual relations.'

Susan started crying, horrified, mortified and terrified of the consequences of having been set-up by Mr Pritchard. But her sobbing cut no ice with the Headmaster. He said to her coldly, 'You may go now. Meanwhile I shall consider what is to be done about this quite unbelievable behaviour. You will be informed as soon as I have reached a decision.'

And she had been. That brown envelope delivered before the milk the next day – Friday morning.

* * *

She only just caught the bus – either an unconscious reluctance to get there or simply the fact that her mind had been somewhere else entirely. Bob was there as usual... She sat with him and he started chatting... as usual... She felt sick again. Then he asked if she wanted to play tennis after school and automatically she said 'Yes' – then remembered... She stammered that she had to do something for the Head. She hated lying to anyone – especially Bob. But it wasn't really a lie, because Bob didn't pursue the matter and force her to say something definite.

Then the ordeal of Assembly... All the masters on the stage... all looking at her, or so it seemed. She forced herself to stand still, look straight ahead – through the various announcements... then the hymn, opening her mouth but not actually singing...

Her first lesson was French, with Mr Rawlings. He was one of her favourite teachers, a nice friendly man and she thought he especially liked her. But today he seemed to want to pretend she wasn't there. He must have been told that awful story... and she felt herself sweating at the thought. Then next it was Miss Gilbey, Art. Miss Gilbey wouldn't be there of course, only the men teachers would be there in the Head's study... to watch her get caned. But Miss Gilbey probably knew nonetheless...

Last lesson that morning was History – Mr Fulton. Susan didn't like Mr Fulton although he was quite friendly to her. Too friendly, in fact, with a sort of leering attitude. She also didn't really like the fact that he frequently came into the gym with his friend Mr Stanley to watch her practice. There was no real reason why he shouldn't watch of course and perhaps she should be flattered. But she had the feeling that it wasn't the gymnastics they were interested in, so much as looking at her body in the revealing gym outfit, the exercises being just a sexy bonus.

Unlike Mr Rawlings, Mr Fulton seemed to be looking at her almost all the whole time during the lesson and she found this as disconcerting as Mr Rawlings seeming to ignore her. At the end of the lesson he came swiftly over to her desk before she could get out. He started chatting about the lesson subject until the others had left... and then squeezed her arm and said confidentially, 'I understand you've got into a spot of hot water, Susan. Just remember if you've got any problems you can always come and talk to me about them.' She felt herself flushing. Mr Fulton was almost the last person she was likely to confide in. She said, 'OK' and started to move away... but not quickly enough as Mr Fulton's hand left her arm and, darting down, gave her bottom a quick feel. She had half expected that because he had done it once or twice before. She went hotly out... as he called after her, 'Just remember, Susan, any time...'

But Mr Fulton and his unpleasant ways were soon forgotten – at least temporarily – as the time moved inexorably on, and 4.30 loomed closer and closer. It was like one of those Greek Tragedies, an awful fate that could not be avoided – coming steadily nearer and nearer...

At lunch she could hardly eat a thing.

'Slimming, Susan?' laughed her friend Joanna.

Susan raised a wan smile. 'No, it's just... I'm not hungry.'

She excused herself as soon as she possibly could and went out. Usually when she felt tense she would do some gym practice but today she couldn't face even that. She wandered aimlessly... and then suddenly in the corridor outside the Music Room... she almost walked into Mr Pritchard.

He appeared as startled as she was but quickly recovered. His mocking voice: 'Ah, Miss Roberts. Preparing yourself for the ordeal, I expect.'

Her heart started pounding. In a trembling voice she said, 'I... I don't know... how you could do such a thing?'

He looked around, then opened the Music Room door and motioned her inside. It was empty, being lunchtime, and he shut the door behind them, then stood close to her. So close that his hot breath hit her face as he hissed: 'I should warn you, Miss, that it would be most unwise to make foolish accusations. You are in enough trouble already. Do you understand me?'

All Susan understood was that it was some kind of threat and she had ignored the last one with disastrous consequences. Eyes downcast, she mumbled, 'Yes Sir.'

Mockingly again, gormandizing the situation, he asked sharply, 'Are you looking forward to it?' and she felt another surge of panic. The thought of that terrible Formal Caning... She glanced up at him, then immediately averted her eyes. There was only one possible way out.

Susan took a deep breath. 'Please... Sir... If... I let you... do what you want... could you ... see the Head and get the caning cancelled. Please Sir...'

The prim voice said, 'I'm afraid that's just not possible. You have got yourself in this situation and there is no way to avoid it now.' Mr Pritchard hesitated, seemed to think for a moment and then went on, 'Actually... it is possible that the Formal Caning will not be the end of it. I know the Headmaster is taking a particularly serious view of what happened, and is thinking of seeing the Governors. It is quite possible that you could be asked to leave the school. However I could... possibly ... put in a word regarding that. So that the matter would be closed with the Headmaster's Caning. Do I make myself clear?'

Once more a miserable mumbled 'Yes Sir.'

Oh what a pretty girl to have in this position! the Senior English Master was thinking, his head spinning.

'Good!' He looked up at the wall clock. 'There are 25 minutes to the start of afternoon classes. I think we have time for a first little session.' He went to the door. 'Come to my room in five minutes. Miss. Be sharp, please.' He went out.

She felt tears starting. She looked blankly round the now empty Music Room. The Greek Tragedy was unfolding... and she had no option but to accept it...

Five minutes later, as if in a dream, she was knocking at his door. 'Come in!' 'Ah Susan: good.' He closed the door behind her. On his desk she was appalled to see a tawse. A vicious-looking piece of leather with twin tails at its end. Just waiting to make contact with the up-thrust flesh of some poor school-girl.

'Good!' he said again. 'Yes, I think we've got just time to give you a little taste. Nothing too serious because we don't want to mark you up for later, do we? But just a little start. Right: take your knickers down please. Down to your knees.'

Still as in a dream, standing in front of him, her hands up under her skirt, fumbling... and then her knickers were coming down...

'That's good. Now I usually place a girl over the seat of my chair. However, in your case, as you have been so reluctant and uncooperative, I think perhaps we could have you in what one might term... a more submissive position, don't you think? Yes, I think instead we will use the stool.' He indicated a leather-padded stool almost the height of Susan's hips. 'Bend right over it please and grip the bar on the far side with both hands!'

She gulped, and just stood there. 'Please...' she whispered.

'Come on, girl!' his voice sharp. 'We haven't all day. Get yourself over the stool!'

As in a dream, with her little white knickers down round her knees, she moved the few paces to the stool... and knelt on it.

'Now down, please!' The prim voice now with an excited edge. 'Head down, grip the bar at the base!'

Yes, an excited edge, for if it felt like a dream to Susan, to George Pritchard it was likewise something he had dreamt of doing for a considerable time. Dreamt obsessively, and at times, almost continuously. He flipped the kneeling girl's skirt up over her back... and there it was: Susan's bottom, her twin firm swelling buttocks, offered up, bare, beautiful, trembling slightly, with just a glimpse of auburn hair at their confluence with the smoothly rounded, sleekly tapering thighs. He was trembling... the moment had arrived... he had accomplished it. His bold, rather frightening move, bribing that window-cleaner... £20... He took up the strap... Control... not too much... She mustn't be marked up for 4.30. Because anyway there would now be plenty of more times to come...

He raised the tawse and after a few seconds' gloating enjoyment of his power he brought it down with a stinging whipping WHACK! across the fullest curve of that upthrust rump. Springy buttock-flesh juddered. Susan gasped. Twin red marks now across the pale smooth flesh.

He waited for a moment, letting the sting develop. Then he raised the tawse again... The firm smooth globes beckoning... CRACK! 'Ooohh!' – a gasping yelp this time as the two tails bit paralleling the first impact. The injured buttocks squirmed, trembled, burned...

Easy, though, he told himself. Not too much. It was only a couple of hours until 4.30 and it would not really do to have her in there with her backside covered with red marks. He'd just give her a couple more... stingy but not so that the marks would stay on the flesh...

So Susan got four and then the strap lightly patted her smarting rump and Mr Pritchard was saying, 'I think that will do for now. Get up and pull up your knickers!' She complied, tears in her eyes. 'Good!' he said, 'Now we know where we stand, don't we? That was just a gentle little warm up. To get you tuned up for 4.30.'

He put the wicked strap down and then turned to her again. 'Now, Miss, after you've had the Formal Caning... I should like you this evening to come round to my house. Do you know where it is? 36 Albany Terrace. At 8 o'clock. Then we can have a nice little talk. Right: off you go. You will doubtless want to prepare yourself... for 4.30.'

* * *

4.30. It had come in no time at all. Three lessons in which she'd sat like a zombie, mostly feeling sick – at what had happened at lunchtime, at what was to come – and then at the 4 o'clock end of school going tight-lipped to the gym. To change into her white sleeveless cotton top and the pale green gym skirt. She checkers her knickers too – they were brief like all her pants but she hoped they would give her some protection against the sharp sting of the rod. They were tight though and that was what she was thinking when at 4.30 sharp, she forced herself to knock on the Head's door.

Inside, a sea of faces. Male faces. It looked like, well, 20 or 30 but could only in fact be the ten men members of staff. All standing around in little groups – twos and threes – where they had obviously been chatting, drinking sherry, discussing what was to come. But now with her entrance they suddenly fell silent. She flushed scarlet, all eyes inevitably on her. Behind her the Deputy Head, Mr Miller, quietly closed the door.

The Headmaster, standing at the other side of his desk where he'd been talking to Mr Rawlings, coughed and glanced at his watch.

'Good. Right on time, Miss, I'm pleased to see,' he said. 'Well, I don't think there is need for any preamble. We all know what we're gathered here for and I expect you'd like to get it over with – as indeed I shall. I never enjoy giving any pupil a Formal Caning, and especially a girl pupil. But... it has been decided that in your case it really is the only option. Are you dressed as instructed?'

Susan nodded, feeling herself sweating.

'Good. In that case if you'll just remove your blazer and skirt.' He turned to go to a cupboard. Susan started unbuttoning her blazer. It came off. Then, trembling, her hands went to the waistband of her skirt. Fumblingly she pulled down the zip and then, trying not to look at any one of the faces which were all focussed intently on her, she slid the skirt down and stepped out of it. Gym top, skimpy white knickers, white knee socks, white plimsolls; she stood cringing in the centre of the room.

'Stand up straight, please!' said the Head crisply. Biting her lip, Susan straightened her posture. Firm, lightly brassiered breasts stretched the tight cotton top – not overly large but each one a lovely little handful, thought Jack Fulton gloatingly. And, beneath, curvaceous contours lower, the brief panties were skin-tight over swelling hams, and in front equally taut over the rounded bulge of her pubis.

'Excellent, girl,' the Head said. He placed the cane which he had just taken from the cupboard on the desk.

'Now I'll just explain the rules for a Formal Caning. You will be bent over the top of my desk. In view of the seriousness of the offence your knickers will be taken down and you will be caned on your bare bottom. I shall give you four strokes to start with. Then the Deputy Headmaster will give you four, and then two other members of staff will each give you three. If you have difficulty in maintaining the position I shall call for a master to hold your arms.

'Is all that clear?'

Susan had flushed crimson. She had not known exactly what the Formal Caning involved and there had been the possibility – the desperate hope – that with the Head's note stressing the requirement for white knickers they might have been retained for the caning. But now the dreadful prospect of being bent bare-bottomed over the desk in front of all these men...

Mr Harrison said, 'Right: let's begin then.' He took her by the arm and led her across to the front of his desk.

Addressing the others he said, 'If you'd all get in a position where you have a clear view of the proceedings but at the same time leave me room to use the cane...'

To the accompaniment of a general shuffling for position his hands went to the girl's waist. Thumbs briskly inserted in the waistband of her panties, one on either hip, and then without further ado they were skinned down... as far as her knees. For some members of staff there was a brief view of full auburn pubic bush before the girl was pushed firmly down over the desk. And there it was for all to see: the focus of the afternoon's activity. Her bared hindquarters: the two full swelling cheeks and their dividing cleft which started on the dimpled flatness of the small of her back and continued through to where the first slight fatness of the tops of her thighs started – where more of those auburn curls were to be seen.

As ten pairs of eyes stared intently Mr Harrison took the girl's arms and stretched them out across the desk top, making her grip the far edge. The stretched posture caused the short white shirt to pull higher, its hem now barely reaching her slim waist. He continued fussing with her position... precisely placing her feet, pulling her legs apart so they strectchd the knickers tight across her thighs, causing the full bottom cheeks to wobble slightly... and then one hand sliding lightly over the actual backside... Around the room a certain amount of heavy breathing now, some masters' faces now pink, one or two bright red. And some feet being shuffled where trouser fronts had become sharply though quite forgivably tight. Because even those masters, like Mr Rawlings, who found the whole performance distasteful could not help experiencing the tense excitement.

The Head finally seemed content with the girl's posture. 'Good. Now I want you to hold that position.' He took up the cane... swishing it through the air to loosen his arm... then positioned himself to one side of her. The final bland statement: 'I need not tell you, Miss, that none of us here enjoys this.' A statement of course quite blatantly untrue. But it was a signal that he was now ready.

Testingly the cane tapped across her buttocks, causing them to flinch. One... two... three... horizontal movements of the cane patting the full soft undercurves... the region of her bottom he evidently intended working on. And then suddenly it was happening: the cane drawn sharply out in a full horizontal arc... then back in, gathering pace... in the same plane... to CRACK!... across those soft undercurves, juddering them, momentarily sinking into the yielding sensitive flesh... producing an agonized gasp from the girl... a desperate squirming of her bottom... The first one had been delivered. As the cane was drawn away a bright red stripe remained in its wake.

Susan continued to gasp and wriggle. The Head waited... letting her feel the full effect. Then again he got set... swung the cane out again... and back, accelerating, so that once more it was at its maximum velocity when... CRACK!... it met those softly curving cheeks again. A gasping yelp of anguish this time... more violent writhings of bottom and legs... and one hand breaking away from the desk top to grab desperately at the smarting backside... Then returning when Mr Harrison brought the cane sharply back across the errant hand. Two bright red stripes now: parallel and about an inch apart.

Another pause... until the worst of the agonized writhing had abated... then another firm hard CRACK!... to the same ultra-sensitised area. A sharp scream... The girl's lower body once more into a series of frenzied squirmings... with this time both hands breaking away to clasp the red hot rear. A stern admonition – 'Back in position, Miss!' – reinforced by a sharp, extra cut of the cane across the hands... The position was resumed.

'One more from me then, Miss.' It landed... CRACK!... almost on top of the line of one of the previous three. She yelped again... and again the desperate writhing of the bum, as if to try and shake off the fearsome smart which the cane had left.

Mr Harrison put the cane down, thoughtfully inspected his work, then straightened up. 'Fine. Now if you'd like to take over, Miller.'

Mr Miller stepped forward, took the cane, and in turn, frowning slightly, inspected the girl's rear and the effect of Mr Harrison's caning. He took up position where the Head had stood... and proceeded at once to deliver his own required four strokes. Not to the lower region of her bottom which the Head had worked on, but higher up, across the approximate centre of the cheeks, the cane rising and falling now in an arc of roughly 45 degrees to the horizontal. Each one landed fully as hard as the Head's, with a resounding shot-like CRACK!... to finally produce a second tight bunch of four strokes. Susan was now obviously crying, but the punishment was not of course over.

With the Head and Deputy Head having carried out their part of the proceedings it was now necessary for the former to call for two masters representing the general staff to each give her three strokes. George Pritchard, who had viewed the proceedings thus far with an impassive self-satisfied air from behind those glinting glasses, did not volunteer. He had no wish to appear too desperately keen to get personally involved in something which he had initiated. A more magisterial, righteous air was appropriate... because of course he did not need to feel too desperate now: he at last had the girl where he wanted her.

Instead, not surprisingly, it was Messrs Fulton and Stanley who quickly, in turn, stepped forward to take up the cane. By the time it got to Mr Stanley, Susan was finding it very difficult to keep a grip on the table edge. The Head had a quick word with Mr Rawlings. He stepped forward, took hold of her hands and firmly held her while Mr Stanley completed the ritual Formal Caning.

And finally it was over. Mr Rawlings released Susan's hands, but she just lay stretched over the desk, sobbing and churning. He reached out and gently patted the chestnut head. The Head's voice: 'Right, pull your knickers up and get your skirt back up. Gentlemen. I think that concludes the proceedings. I thank you for your attendance.'

* * *

Afterwards? Well, there was 36 Albany Terrace at 8 o'clock that evening of course. Susan, feeling dreadful, nonetheless went because she had no real option – not after what Mr Pritchard had said at lunchtime. The Formal Caning had been just unspeakable – the actual dreadful caning itself and, perhaps even more, having it in front of all the men teachers. The pain in her poor bottom had slowly abated afterwards but the feeling of abject humiliation remained as strong as ever while she had her tea (in fact just sitting there, hardly eating anything) and then afterwards as she sat upstairs alone in her room. But... there was nothing for it but to go round to Mr Pritchard's at 8 o'clock...

The prim voice again, now smug and gloating. 'Well, my girl: now you see what happens to girls who try to go their own way and refuse to cooperate with a master's wishes.' He led her into his study. 'Right. Let's have a look at you. Take your knickers off and bend over the stool.' A tall stool very similar to the one in his school office was in the centre of the room. 'Head down, fingertips on the carpet... Go on, stretch.'

Susan complied, she simply had to. He flipped up her skirt. The marks of the caning were still discernable on the rounded buttocks: the twin tightly bunched groupings from the Head and the Deputy Head, together with the less precise pattern resulting from the other two masters' efforts. George Pritchard gazed, eyes gleaming... Then his hand came down in a sharp slap across the bare bottom.

'Right. Get up!'

She stood miserably before him, wondering fearfully what was next... but for the moment it was nothing. 'I think you've had enough for one day, Miss. We won't overdo it. But I shall require you to report to me here each Friday evening from now on. We will then discuss the previous week's work and behaviour and I shall mete out whatever punishment I think is necessary – over this stool.'

Then, as an afterthought, he added, 'Oh, there is one other thing, before you go.' His eyes were shiny, boring into her. His voice thickened when he spoke again.

'I think a little extra smartness – an element of formality – would be appropriate for these visits. Therefore you may wear your school uniform or a dress as you think fit. But in addition I should like nylons and a suspender belt. And a smart pair of heeled shoes. Oh yes, and your knickers can be any colour you like – but keep them brief, please. Yes. Otherwise... I think that's all...'

Yes, that was 8 o'clock at 36 Albany Terrace. But there was one further thing: another note, addressed to Miss Susan Roberts and delivered again by Mr Bert Davis to 17 Frobisher Avenue, this time on the following Monday morning at 7 am. Another innocent-looking brown envelope which, when opened in the privacy of Susan's room, was again seen to have the School Crest... Headmaster: R.A. Harrison, M.A.... etc. The date was yesterday, 17th May. Numbly she read it:

Dear Miss Roberts,

Further to recent events and the Formal Caning of Friday, I have now discussed this matter with the Chairman of Governors who, I must tell you, was shocked and deeply concerned to hear of your behaviour. He was of the opinion that a single Formal Headmaster's Caning was hardly sufficient punishment for such quite unacceptable behaviour, especially in view of the serious effect it could have on the good name of the School.

I must tell you that the possibility of expulsion was seriously considered but I was able to argue against this in the light of your excellent behaviour in the past and also in view of your coming GCE 'A' Level examinations next year. What was decided therefore was that for the remainder of your school career – i.e. the rest of this term and all of next year – a number of senior masters will be given permission to cane you as and when they see fit. These masters are: Mr Rawlings, Mr Dale, Mr Pritchard, Mr Fulton, Mr Stanley and Mr Peacock.

Accordingly, tomorrow (Monday) you will take this note round to each master in this list and ask him to sign it, and then bring the fully signed note to me at the end of school the same day. I may say however that this arrangement (as with the Formal Caning) does not need to be made public. Thus if you co-operate your parents need not be informed and there is also no need for other members of the School to know anything of this.

Signed: R.A. Harrison, Headmaster.

Susan read the note. Re-read it. Looked blankly, numbly, at the wall. Two tears welled in the corners of those hazel-green eyes... and slowly trickled down the pretty cheeks.

It was all so terribly unfair – when she had done nothing at all wrong, not broken any rules. But at the same time it was all part of growing up and the lessons that have to be learned. One lesson of course was that it is usually better to co-operate with those in positions of authority, even when it does seem unpleasant. And the other, wider, lesson? Well, that life can be unfair. That at times in fact it is very unfair indeed and one just has to accept it.

Yes it was for Susan all part of a very painful lesson. A lesson which for the next three terms and more her tender rear was going to be learning pretty thoroughly.

Return to School

The title says it all, really. Quite a well-worn theme but this is a good straight take on it and the deputy-head is particularly clearly drawn.



It seemed distinctly errie going through the school gates again - a strange disquieting feeling. Mainly it was the silence of course, no other girls running about and shouting and this was hardly surprising because it was out of term time - the end of July and a week after school had broken up. A hot and sunny afternoon and as she looked across the deserted quadrangle the memories came flooding back: some of them pleasant ones naturally - of her classmates and friends - but mostly the unpleasant ones - the spankings, and more especially the canings. The cane and St. Monica's: the two were inseparable, for St. M's was a school dedicated to the belief that middle-class girls developed into proper young ladies only as a result of strict discipline. And at St. Monica's that meant first and foremost the cane.... energetically applied to youthful rear-quarters.

And thinking of the cane she couldn't help feeling a tingle of apprehension. She tried to dismiss it for really it was silly: she was now 21 and it had been nearly three years since she had been a pupil here and at the mercy of Mr. James and his staff. Sally Middleton, she told herself, calm down: and behave like an adult and not a schoolgirl. She unconsciously pulled back her high firm breasts out against the thin material of her blouse. Keith, at the wheel of the car and wondering where it was best to park, happened to look across at that moment and mopped his brow. He was hot enough without her doing that.

Fiance Keith had been feeling more than a little frustrated ever since their stop for a picnic lunch on the drive down. He had been hoping Sally would agree to a bit of slap and tickle after lunch - well, they were getting married in six months time and had been doing it for several months now. Doing it when he could persuade her, that is, but on this occasion all his efforts at persuasion got him nowhere: she simply wasn't having any. The truth was, although she would not have admitted it even to herself, Sally was more than a bit nervous about the coming meeting. With Mr. Grant, the Deputy Head.

It had been the Head, Mr. James, whom she had been trying to contact when she had phoned. Well, when you needed a reference you naturally went to your Headmaster, but he had been unavailable. It was close to the end of term and she was told, to her surprise, that he in fact was due to leave the school and was very busy. And she had been put through to Mr. Grant. She would definitely much rather not have spoken to Mr. Grant and indeed she could recall telling herself when she left school that he was one master she quite definitely would be happy never to speak to or see again.

He had always been the worst - worst with the cane that is, always knickers down and then lashing it into your bare bottom so that even in the Sixth Form you were almost immediately reduced to tears and abject pleadings for him to stop. And that had been exactly what he had done on her very last morning at school, catching Sally and two or three other school-leavers rather prematurely laughing and joking in the corridor and singling her out to be taken to his room. To be bent over that horrid chair and have her skimpy pink knickers taken down for one final dose of the medicine which he so loved to mete out to a pretty teenager. It had been an all-too-fitting finish to her school career: the caning and then having to stand tearfully before him while his hand went up her skirt 'checking' that her knickers were correctly back in place, but actually of course fondling her through the knickers and then delivering a couple of painful spanks with his open palm. As he did it she had the one consoling thought that at least it was for the very last time and she would never have to see him or speak to him again. Not ever.

But then a year later suddenly there was his voice on the phone and she was automatically saying 'Oh Please Sir, sorry to bother you Sir.' And when he had asked what it was she wanted she had said 'Pl..please Sir....' and then found herself asking him for the reference she had intended to get from Mr. James. Having said it she immediately hoped he would say no, but he didn't. What he said was that of course he couldn't just write a reference when he knew nothing about what she'd done during the past few years. He would really need to see her again and have a talk first and then he was sure he could oblige. As it happened he was staying on at St. Monica's for a couple of weeks after the end of term and so it would be convenient if she came down there. And with an empty feeling in her stomach Sally found herself automatically agreeing, automatically also falling back into the role of the obedient pupil as she said 'Yes Sir. Thank-you Sir.'

The truth was that if it were not for the fact that she really needed a reference she would definitely have ducked out of meeting him again - sent a note: thank-you very much but I find now it's not really necessary. But she was desperately keen to get this really good job with the Company Keith worked for - a job that was so much better than the rather menial one she had had for more than six months now. And of course really there was nothing Mr. Grant could do to her now she was no longer a pupil. Well there wasn't was there?

Yes she really needed that reference, for the year since leaving St. Monica's had sadly failed to live up to what it had promised. Because that marvellous-sounding job - Personal Secretary to Mr. Larkin, one of the senior partners in the Law Firm of Merridrew and Larkin - well, if you had said it sounded too good to be true you would have been exactly right. What it was in fact was simply a continuation of the worst aspects of school, with Mr. Larkin finding an excuse virtually every day to take her knickers down, either over his lap or over the arm of that big leather armchair in his office. And at times using that awful riding crop which if anything was worse than a cane. And if that wasn't enough there were also those favoured clients whom you had to take documents round to and who had to be allowed the same privilege - taking your knickers down, that is, and spanking your bottom. Yes it had really been no different from St. Monica's and often quite a lot more painful and humiliating..

Eventually, after a particularly touch client had given her twelve strokes of the crop of her bare bottom she felt she could take no more and she had given in her notice. Mr. Larkin had been very angry and said he would speak to St. Monica's about being so badly let down; but she didn't suppose he actually did, and anyway she didn't care, she wouldn't have worked there any more if they paid her £1000 a week.

After that she had been unemployed for a bit and then the job she still had now - nothing more than glorified tea-girl really, with a firm of exporters. The pay was miserable and so were the prospects but at least she didn't get her knickers taken down all the time. And of course early in this period she had met Keith and that had more than made up for the limitations of her job. Now, though, the chance of this other post had come up and if she could manage to get it, because she would need to keep working after they were married. And with a good reference there was no reason at all why she shouldn't....

'It all seems very deserted,' said Keith, having parked the car over in the corner of the quad in the only available patch of shade. 'Are you sure he's here?'

Oh, Sally was sure he would be here alright. 2.30 sharp he had said and it was now just 2.20. Timed just right, she thought, and then felt another surge of fear, remembering of course the very last time she was here - that final day of school when Mr. Grant had managed to seize one more opportunity to get her knickers down. She just wished she were somewhere - anywhere - else; but such thoughts were pointless and anyway it would soon be over. 'Right. I'd better go in then. Mustn't be late!' Mustn't give him any excuse to be awkward. 'Hey! Stop....!'

She kissed him briefly and then checked her lipstick in the car mirror. Not too much make-up on. Mr. Grant might not approve.... She realised she was thinking just like a frightened St. Monica's schoolgirl again. Well she couldn't help it, it was this place - being here again. Once again her thoughts went back to that last day at school. Mr. Grant taking her into his room and locking the door.

'Right Miss, over the chair please. Then we'll have those panties down and see if we can't find a suitable antidote for unruly behaviour.'

She forced a smile at Keith as she tried to obliterate the memory from her mind. It was time to go in....

Keith watched her tall shapely figure walk away across the hot and empty quad, smart black heels going clip-clop on the tarmac. The short blonde hair, the crisp blouse, the demure calf-length skirt swaying rhythmically with the movement underneath of those thighs, that bottom, which he now knew so well. He could just trace the outline of her sexy little knickers He watched until she disappeared into the building opposite. Hopefully she wouldn't be long.... then they could drive back to that place in the woods.... where earlier he hadn't been able to get what he wanted. His thoughts ran on.... They would get the blanket out again....

To take his mind off such thoughts (and indeed to ease the tightness in his trousers which a growing erection had produced) he got out of the car for a look around. It seemed a fairly ordinary place - a typical school, nothing remarkable. Funny that Sally had never said hardly anything at all about it - not like some girls who were always going on about what they'd done at school. This Grant: he wondered what he was like.... The typical harmless old duffer, he supposed....

-o-O-o-

A harmless old duffer? Well yes he was, as long as you weren't a pretty girl who had to stand flinching in front of him - just as you'd had to all those times before: now with your pretty blonde head shining in the shaft of light streaming in through his window and your pretty knees trembling under your skirt. And your pretty tits trembling too and as you see the direction of his eyes, greedy behind the spectacles, you wish frantically that the tits were just a bit smaller and didn't stick out so much or at least you had not worn the rather tight thin blouse with just the light bra underneath which you knew showed the shape of your nipples.

Because really you should have remembered that Mr. Grant had always liked girls' tits - in addition to their bottoms of course. But back at home you foolishly hadn't thought: as you foolishly hadn't realized that once in here, in his room, nothing would have changed and you would again be the defenceless rabbit mesmerised by the weasel's cold stare. For the clammy mesmeric fear had reached out and gripped you the moment you stepped inside that room which was hot and stuffy with the sun beating in through the closed window and altogether you felt a little faint.

The weasel moved. The spectacles glinted, reflecting, as he got up from behind his desk and walked round it to you. And spoke: 'A reference is it? Hmm... I should have thought that these two were reference enough.' And the bony hand reached out and felt the weight of each breast in turn. 'Mmm. Yes. They seem somewhat bigger than when you were last here. If I remember correctly.'

His fingers moved to fondle her nipples and she felt a little sick standing immobile in the stuffy room as his voice, that so-familiar voice from her schooldays, continued: 'Mmm... Perhaps we should have a better look. Don't you think? A proper check....' And the fingers went to the little buttons of her blouse.... and as if they had a perfect right began unbuttoning the top one.... and then the next.... methodically, unhurriedly. 'Yes, a little check.'

What he was doing was quite outrageous and she should slap his hand away and tell him thank-you she could do without the reference and walk smartly out. There must be someone else who could give one. But she knew she was powerless to do this. Being here in his room, with his frightening, dominating presence, as she had been all those times at school, it was as if she had never left and there was just no way she could do anything except meekly submit.... to whatever he wanted. She felt beads of perspiration above her lip and had a sudden consciousness of her knickers, tight and brief under her skirt. Really much too brief. And she knew as her blouse was unfastened that they - the brief knickers - would be coming down. Knew it just as much as if he had already told her, for wasn't that what happened last time - and what always happened? There would be some excuse and she would be bent over the seat of his chair: her bare bottom flinching in anticipation....

Yes she could see it all, just as it had been all those times before and there was really nothing to do about it except say 'Yes Sir.' and 'No Sir.' and... She felt a little light-headed and steadied herself with her hand on his desk as he finished unbuttoning the blouse and pulled it free from the waistband of her skirt. Perhaps he would just....? But no: his hands round her back to her bra strap, unfastening it, then pulling the bra up to release her breasts. The sudden shock of his hands on her bare tits.... squeezing.... the fingers playing, fondling... causing her nipples to harden and stick out.... like they did when Keith.... But this was Mr. Gram.... loathsome hands actually on her bare boobs. It was quite awful.... but there was nothing she could do to stop him. She could only stand still.... feeling sick....

Finally he finished with them and she could do her bra and blouse up again; wondering vaguely as she did so whether he would now cane her right away or make her wait a while for it, as he sometimes used to. It seemed hotter than ever in the room and she thought of Keith outside, where it was hot but not stifling like this. Keith out there in another world....

But Mr. Grant, who didn't seem bothered by the heat, was now seated at his desk again and telling her to come and stand at his side. She had had to do that before of course and, yes, right away his hand came up her skirt to grip the back of the nearest nyloned knee. He wanted to knew about what she'd been doing in the last years and as she haltingly started to describe her jobs so the hand moved up.... to the tops of her nylons.... and the full warm thighs above. Where Keith's hand had just recently been but unlike Keith's you couldn't push this hand away and say 'Stop it.' Not Mr. Grant's. The hand explored her thighs.... and then her bottom in the decidedly skimpy nylon briefs....

His voice suddenly interrupting her as she tried to make what she did at Binney's sound more than just tea-girl: 'Have you had it very recently Miss?'

'Wh..What Sir?'

The hand pinched her bottom. 'What do you think I'm referring to? Sexual intercourse? Though I suppose you've had that alright. But what I am talking about is the cane. Have you had the cane recently?'

'N... No Sir. Not... not since I've been at Binney's Sir.'

'Really. You mean to say that Mr. Binney doesn't keep a cane in his office for girls whose work is not quite up to scratch?'

'No Sir.'

'And don't you think he should? For Miss Sally Middleton, at least?'

Sally swallowed nervously. The direction of his remarks was all too obvious.

'Sir I... I do my job properly Sir...'

'Do you indeed? Well in my experience a girl is never doing anything completely properly and always benefits from regular correction. And your employers are most misguided if they think otherwise. Yes Miss - faults and shortcomings, including serious ones, are not difficult to find in young women of your age. His hand pinched her bottom again through the brief panties. 'For instance at this moment these knickers you are wearing are most unsuitable. Much too brief. Do you know that Miss?'

'Well I... Yes Sir.'

'Yes, well do you know what I am going to do then? Before I write out your reference? I am going to take them down and give you a little reminder of what apparently you have been missing. You know what I am talking about of course? I am talking about the cane. On your bare bottom. And then perhaps when next you think of putting on such unsuitably scanty garments you will at least think twice.'

This was it. Sally, redfaced, head lowered, bit her lip. She had known that it would inevitably come to this. Mr. Grant's hand was withdrawn from her skirt. He got up and went to his cupboard.... the cupboard which she knew from long and painful experience contained his canes.

'Right Miss. Over the chair if you please. The usual position. And then we'll give that bottom a little taste of what it's been missing.'

Automatically she did as she was told - well, didn't you always with Mr. Grant do as you were told? - lowering herself over the seat of the chair, her head down and her bottom up. Up and in position for that hateful whippy cane now lying on his desk.

She felt her skirt abruptly pulled up, round her waist, to reveal of course the offending knickers - semi-transparent navy-blue nylon and very brief, leaving a good deal of soft pale rump quite bare. Quite definitely they were not St. Monica's approved wear and Mr. Grant made sounds of disapproval ('Really these are quite unacceptable!') as he slipped them down, to her nylon tops at mid-thigh. Sally cringed - terribly conscious of her bottom now completely bare.... unconstrained... defenceless... The defencelessness sharply emphasised as Mr. Grant's hand came down hard in a gratuitous spank across both buttocks.... 'Keep it still Miss.'

Yes the moment of truth had arrived and there was nothing to do now except grit your teeth in anticipation of the first stinging cut. Her buttocks automatically clenched as for a moment she forgot that that was against the rules. 'Stop that!' His hand slapping her bottom again. 'Keep the cheeks relaxed.' His hand fondling.... 'And get it up a bit more.' Yes that seemed to be.... just about right....

Thwack! 'Oooooh!' The first one as always even worse than you imagined it would be. The sheer pain of it slashing into the bare flesh, abruptly dispelling any trace of that half dream-like feeling that had enveloped you ever since entering his room; for you just could not be anything but wide awake after that.

And barely time to grit your teeth again before.... Thwack! 'Ooooohh!' the cane searing down for a second stroke. Grit your teeth and try to keep your legs straight and your bottom still or he would simply add more to the six you'd been promised. Grit your teeth and grip the legs of the chair as tightly as you could....

Thwack! 'Oooohhh!' Oh please Jesus! You are dimly aware that you are crying.... Thwack! 'Oh! Please! Please no more...' Thwack!......... Thwack!

It was finally over, the six red stripes on her bottom the evidence. Her sobbing now the only sound in that brightly sunlit room.

Then Mr. Grant's voice telling her she could get up. Painfully she did so; and pulled her knickers back up again, up over a desperately stinging rear. At least it was over and she had paid Mr. Grant's price. He would now write her reference and she would be able to go. She turned a flushed and tear-stained face towards him as he started to speak again....

-o-O-o-

Outside Keith stood leaning on his car - with growing impatience. It seemed an age since she'd gone - this chap must be writing reams and reams. Once again he gazed around: at the empty quad, the building opposite with it's windows like blank vacant eyes. The place certainly appeared quite deserted, apart from a couple of pigeons wheeling around, though Sally and presumably this schoolmaster were in there somewhere....

Not being familiar with St. Monica's of course he didn't know the lay-out, didn't know that Mr. Grant's room was in fact in one of the wings at the rear. And then also it was on the first floor so that you couldn't anyway look in - unless you were one of those pigeons. Couldn't look in and see.... Sally.... over that chair.... her bare bottom.... and the cane. No there was no way of seeing this, or of observing anything else round that side of the building. The Sick Room was there of course, again on the first floor....

Keith heaved another big sigh: looked once more at his watch. Wherever had she got to? Perhaps the old duffer was giving her tea, that was why they were so long ....

Finally, at last, Sally appeared at the entrance where she had gone in and looking at his watch Keith saw it was 3.40 - over an hour! She stepped out into the sunlight and commenced to walk, somewhat stumblingly, across the tarmac.

Back in the car she seemed tense, distracted, and what with that rather uncertain way she had been walking Keith wondered if she was alright. Perhaps the heat? Or maybe this Grant had refused to write the reference? No, she was O.K. she said and she had the reference. What took so long then? Were they having tea or something?

'Yes,' she said, 'Yes we had some tea.' It was a lie of course: a little white lie but what else could she say? The truth? She winced at the thought, at the utter horror of Keith ever knowing....

The last thing she wanted to do now was to stop at that place - in the woods, but Keith insisted and of course he'd been planning on it but she really couldn’t face it had suddenly she blurted out what had happened. Keith naturally was furious. ‘You let him cane you? How could you? Let me see’ Quickly Keith grabbed poor Sally and pulled her over his knees. He pulled up her skirt and saw her reddened bottom. ‘I’m going to punish you for this’ He said ‘How dare you bare your bottom for some old teacher. It’s disgraceful’ , and with that he grabbed the waistband of her knickers, pulled them off her bottom for the second time in just an hour and began a painful hand-spanking which brought the poor, reddened globes back to life. Eventually he tired of his enviable task but not before he had told the poor gilr that henceforth she should expect similar – or more painful – treatment if ever she transgressed again.

-o-O-o-

Back at school the place looked as deserted as ever and indeed now had only the one solitary occupant. He - Mr. Grant, Deputy Head - was looking out from his window at the lawn and noting how parched the grass was getting. He had better tell the gardener to do some watering when he came in the morning. He turned away, and happening to notice that his cane was still on his desk went to return it to the cupboard. He was always a most precise, tidy man.

He swished the cane through the air with some satisfaction. It had been a most rewarding afternoon. Well, it was not every day that an extremely attractive ex-pupil returned and you just happened to have something she wanted quite so badly..... mmmm... Rewarding in the extreme. And having once sampled it he had every intention of trying it again.

It was true that he didn't have Miss Sally Middleton's address. But that was a minor problem for he could easily get it from her mother. Yes: in fact he might even.... try Mrs. Middleton's number right now. He went to his bookcase for the old list of parents' addresses and phone numbers. Yes, here it was....

It was all very pleasant and civilized. A cordial chat with a charming lady - who like most mothers of St. Monica's pupils had no inkling of certain aspects of the school's regime, and certainly no inkling of what Mr. Grant could be like when he had a defenceless girl alone in his office. Yes, a cordial chat at the end of which he was writing down an address on his memo pad. A London address: Finchley.

'She shares a flat with her friend Charlotte Greene,' said Mrs. Middleton, 'until she gets married at least.' And Mr. Grant was given some gratuitous details of the wedding plans, to which he listened with polite interest before thanking the lady.

'Shall I tell her you called?' she inquired.

'Oh I shouldn't do that,' said Mr. Grant. 'I might drop in to see her and I'd like it to be a surprise.'

'Oh how nice. Yes, alright: I won't say a word then.’

A Prefect's Pleasure

A wonderful schoolgirl story, this. Sophie's own description of her tawsing on her tightly knickered-bottom is particularly strong.



You know how it is, no matter how close a group of people seem to be to one another, there’s always one who's really only on the fringes and whose membership of the gang is more tenuous than many of the others. It was like that at my school:
there was a group of us in the upper sixth, a sort of natural elite comprising Rowena, who was Head Girl and a half dozen or so of us Senior Prefects. In our case, the one on the periphery was a girl called Sophie Grant.
Sophie wasn’t actually a member of the prefecture. she was too eager to please everybody and anxious for a quiet life to be able to cope with the responsibility. If a controversy arose, Sophie Elizabeth Grant was always to be found sitting resolutely on the fence. If a junior was in trouble, she unfailingly wanted them to be given a second chance. All very laudable, perhaps, as a rule, but at a top-ranking private school like ours, the qualities prized most were competitiveness, leadership and decisiveness. Still. she was a good sort and we had no objection to her tagging along with us.
To the rest of the school, Sophie was as much of our clique as any of us, but amongst ourselves was the knowledge that she wasn't wholly accepted as a member of the ‘in crowd'. She had a tendency to wander off to follow solitary pursuits; she wasn’t quite as good as the rest of us at games: she put her personal activities ahead of our communal per suits; her work was rated B-plus, when the rest of us got A-minus. However, we'd known her for seven years, she was a fellow Upper Sixth former and she had the right sort of background. She was more 'in' than ‘out’ I suppose you could say.
It is quite probable that the minor differences that distanced Sophie from the rest of us would have been of no consequence had it not been for the events of our final term at Bream Academy.
As befits an institution which prides itself on producing young women of high academic distinction and impeccable social poise, discipline was strict. During term time there was to be no fraternising with members of the opposite sex, no visits to the nearby town in groups of less than three and strict adherence to the wearing of school uniform. Corporal punishment was employed in the lower school often by the Senior Prefects. But though there was no rule stating that seniors were not to be caned, more dignified punishments were usually meted out to older students such as lines, detentions or - in extreme cases- expulsion.
Of course, as one grew older, so one became bolder and more rash it about flouting the rules and so it was that Rowena came to be 'walking out' with Hamish Clarke, her opposite number at the St Patrick's Institute for Boys on the other side of town. They made an attractive couple, sharing a common bond of intellect and affection and they were considering accepting places at the same college to continue their studies the following autumn. If took a lot of effort! on both parties to be able to meet regularly and a secretly and those of us privileged to know the details of their relationship naturally became involved In their clandestine assignations. Thus our already close group was bound together even closer by the sharing of the secret and the excitement. Until Sophie Grant spoiled it, that is.

Rowena roamed around the large study she shared with two other Senior Prefects, adjusting furnishings, thumbing through books and becoming increasingly agitated. The rest of us arranged ourselves as casually as was possible on the chairs and desks around the room, all anxious to talk but unwilling to initiate conversation.
As the door handle turned, Rowena perched on the edge of her desk, suddenly ominously calm.
Sophie entered the room. registering surprise at seeing us arranged around the perimeter watching her arrival.
'A fourth-former said you were look for me’ she said to Rowena in her usual friendly tone, a hint of a lisp making her seem younger and more vulnerable than the rest of us.
'That's right. Come in and close the door. Sorry, there don't seem to be enough chairs left' Sophie could not fail to notice the coldness in Rowena's voice and looked around apprehensively as she guided the heavy door to its frame. With nowhere to sit, she lent casually against the wall, but Rowena didn't want her to be at ease 'Come closer' she told the flustered wretch. 'We have important matters to discuss'
Sophie found herself having to stand in the centre of the study on a faded multi-coloured rug where it was more normal for recalcitrant Juniors to be positioned for a pep talk, a sharp spanking or swift caning on their hands. (Bottom canings though common, were not official and were usually administered after lights out in the gym with a lot of attendant ritual. Although we would never admit it, a bottom caning was often ordered more for the amusement of the Prefects than for the moral reform of a naughty adolescent.
The two girls stared at one another and I was struck, not for the first time, by the extreme contrast to one another. There could be no denying that they were both very attractive young women. but the fact was manifested in completely different ways, Sophie had the looks and build of a typical 'Page 3' girl, a fact she wasn't unaware of and which she consciously used to manipulate situations to her advantage. Rumours abounded about her romantic escapades, but she had never deigned to confirm or deny them. If we hadn't been so enlightened and confident in our own academic and social competence we might have felt jealous of her, but as it was, we tended to almost pity her for her 'dumb blonde' cuteness.
Her honey-toned hair fell loosely over her shoulders, the fringe accentuating her saucer-like blue eyes. She ,had a typically English flawless peaches-and-cream complexion and a permanently pouting mouth that made her seem to be perpetually blowing kisses.
At the other extreme was Rowena very tall, athletically slim, strong featured and extremely serious-minded, in addition to being Head Girl, she was Captain of the netball, lacrosse and swimming teams and active in the full range of sporting activities, Her body was sleek and firm, her limbs obviously powerful, her auburn hair was cropped into a functional wavy cap, giving her a slight resemblance to an eagle with her sharply-defined face. Whatever the situation, she was always perfectly turned out and had no time for slovenliness in others. She had once played Diana, the hunting goddess in an end-of-term play and there had never been any doubt about casting the part.
'We've not seen much of you recently,' our Head Girl said conversationally.'What have you been doing with your time?
'Oh, you know, various things.'
Sophie stalled. 'I’ve been desperately trying to catch up with my Geography assignments and one of the fourth formers asked me to coach her French. Things like that...'
I have to admit, I admired her guile. Her eyes never left Rowena’s and there was no give-away fidgeting as she gave her reply.
'That's very interesting,' Rowena continued in her chatty way. 'I'm amazed you've been able to do all that and break bounds to meet my boyfriend three times a week'.
Now Sophie did look away, but only momentarily. When her eyes once again locked with Rowena's, her mouth twisted contemptuously
'Your boyfriend’ she 'spat. 'Your boyfriend? Hamish has been bored with you for months, he Just didn't get around to spelling it out for you. You don't have copyright on ways of leaving school to meet lovers, you know.'
The force and venom of her reply astounded us all and we stared blatantly as though seeing her for the first time.
'What you say may have some truth in it’ Rowena responded coolly. 'but I believe you have - shall we say - gone further in your liaison with Hamish Clarke than is generally the practice of Bream Academy girls. As Head Girl, I feel I must put aside my personal feelings and involvement in the matter and decide how such conduct should be dealt with. You could be considered a corrupting influence on some of our younger girls’.
'You hypocritical...!' Sophie began, but Rowena was not to be interrupted.
'It's always difficult, even for the Head Girl, to find an appropriate, condign, punishment when a senior commits a misdemeanour. It’s especially difficult when the fault is so serious. The nearest incident I can think of for comparison was that of Katherine Robson two years ago, you probably remember. she stole a valuable watch from another Prefect and pawned it in the town to finance a weekend tryst. The Head Girl at the tune felt she had to report the incident to out principle as it was beyond her capabilities to deal with. I think I feel similarly about your conduct, Sophie '
‘You can't report me to Dr Tern’ Sophie snarled. 'I'd tell her about yourinvolvement. You wouldn't remain Head Girl for long when it became known that you've been getting Senior Prefects to help you break bounds to meet a boy in town'
'Don't get hysterical, Sophie. Dr Tern would realise that you were lying out of spite. ' Rowena leaned forward and smiled confidently. 'Shall we think again?'
None of us knew what Rowena had in mind and more than one of us could have been described as gawping at the two leading players in this strange scenario. The Head Girl sat more comfortably on her perch and once again assumed the aloof persona we were used to seeing.
'I don't want to see you expelled, Sophie, but your conduct cannot be ignored, 1 give you the choice: do you want me to report your behaviour to Dr Tern, knowing that she'll ask your parents to remove you, or would you prefer the problem to be settled between ourselves?'
For the first time, Sophie's poise slipped, but she was still on the offensive 'You'd do it, wouldn’t you? You'd really get me thrown out of the Academy just because you couldn’t keep your boyfriend from wandering off to more interesting pastures. And you'd happily broadcast all the smut you could manufacture, right?'
Despite the query, it was obvious she didn't expect a response. 'Well, it’s obvious I don't want to be expelled and it’s equally obvious you're serious about this ridiculous kangaroo court you've set up. So go on, tell me my fate - what sentence are you going to pass? Detention? Lines? Loss of privileges?’
I don't know whether it was her aggressive defiance that influenced Rowena's reply or whether she had made up her mind before gathering us all together, but her words sent a cold shiver of shock and anticipation down my spine.
'You will be caned’ she said.

* * * * * *
There were several stifled gasps from the rest of us as we all stared at Rowena, unable to believe she was serious. There was no precedent – true or apocryphal - for anyone of our age being caned. Sixth-formers ran no risk of the rod. regardless of what they did wrong. Glancing nervously at one another, it was clear we all felt her statement to be some kind of joke. Sophie was obviously expending a lot of energy in preventing herself from responding. If it hadn't been for the alternating doubt and shock in her eyes and her hands clasped tightly (symbolically?) behind her back, we could have believed she hadn’t heard. No doubt the stunned silence lasted only a moment, but it seemed an age before the senior girl asked, 'Did ovum hear me? Do you understand?'.
Sophie swallowed hard, took a deep breath and responded defiantly,’ You wouldn't dare.'
As though she hadn't heard, Rowena continued, adopting a tone normally reserved for dealing with junior miscreants:
'You have committed four offences as 1 see it. Firstly, you have broken school bounds; secondly you have been associating, to put it mildly, with a boy form St Patrick’s; thirdly you have done me a personal injustice by seducing my boyfriend and finally you have generally behaved in a way that could bring the name of our school into disrepute. You have already agreed that your peers should punish you, rather than referring the matter to the principal: I have therefore decided – as I said - that you shall be "flogged" as they call it at St Pat's. Because of your age and the seventy of your wrong-doings. I do feel that the usual "six of the best" prescribed for the juniors is inadequate. There was an expectant hush as Rowena paused before announcing, ‘For each of your wicked misdemeanours, Sophie, you will receive eight strokes, on your buttocks'
Now we were all chattering at once, except for Sophie, who was too dumbfounded to respond. The punishment was unheard of in the history of the school and some of us expressed concern at the idea of a girl - albeit well-rounded - being able to endure 32 strokes of the cane. It must be admitted, though. that Sophie’s super figure and glam looks .gave rise to a certain amount of small-minded resentment amongst some of my fellow prefects, and this could well have accounted for the rather spiteful and unsympathetic atmosphere in the study.
'Naturally, Rowena went on, raising her voice above the noise and sounding harsh and strident, 'you cannot be expected to take your total punishment at one go. Instead you will report to the gymnasium in full PE kit, at midnight each Friday for the next four weeks to receive your well-deserved punishment in stages. Have you any comments?'
Sophie was staring at the ground 'I know you’re serious about this, Rowena.' she said softly, 'even if some of the others don't believe it. I'll comply with your suggestion because I don’t want to be expelled just before the exams and I know you won't just let the matter drop.'
'You can go now, Sophie’ Rowena said, returning to her former friendly attitude, 'If I don't see you over the next couple of days, I look forward to seeing you at midnight on Friday’
Sophie turned and left, visibly shaken and pale, but clinging to her composure. Each of us wondered if she would keep the ominous appointment. Rowena's 'sentence' on her was totally outrageous on many counts. But she was genuinely angry and would most certainly have reported Sophie to Dr Tern if she failed to turn up. Sophie's nature, on the other hand, was so malleable that – protest though she had – any other reaction from her to the Head Girl 's orders would have been hard to imagine. I wondered if it were some great hoax and that scaring Sophie into reporting to the gym in her kit, with the attendant humiliation of being laughed at would in the event suffice to satisfy Rowena's need for revenge. Our Head Girl refused to discuss the matter further, except to tell us all to be present on Friday in the gym.
During the intervening days, Sophie avoided all contact with our group, which was not surprising and in many ways was a great relief. Amongst ourselves, many conversations on the subject were started but were aborted in embarrassed speculation. Friday evening found us all unusually engrossed in individual prefectorial duties around the school and even after we had done our 'lights out' round at 10.30, we kept to our separate areas of our two shared dormitories, reading or pretending to sleep.
Twenty minutes before midnight brought Rowena to our rooms to gather us up. She was immaculately turned out in full school uniform and urged us to dress similarly. A couple of us had changed into our civilian clothes as was usual in the evenings and the others had changed into their nightclothes, expecting the whole performance
to be called off, or for their attendance to no longer be required. Hurriedly we all changed back into our weekday wear and put on our piped prefects' blazers, desperately trying to match Rowena for smartness.
We tiptoed down me long corridors and stairways leading to the basement gym. There were no hard-and-fast rules about Senior Prefects remaining in their dormitories at night or specific rules about 'lights out' time for us, but given that our mission was not exactly orthodox, the need for secrecy was great. It was the same when a night-time caning was ordered for a junior, a rare occurrence, but not unknown if we were feeling particularly malicious or if the victim had done something unusually heinous.
As the stroke of midnight rang out from the school clock above the quad we ranged along the far wall of the gymnasium. We must all have had the simultaneous thought that Sophie would not turn up because we all stiffened in mild surprise as the door creaked open. There was only one light switched on and at first she had difficulty spotting us on the other side of the room. She. too, registered surprise at seeing us all but strove to move confidently as she approached Rowena.
She was dressed, as, directed, in the regulation white aertex shirt, with the shadow of her bra clearly visible, navy pleated gym shorts, white ankle socks and white plimsolls. Her hair was caught back in an elastic band and she looked for all the world as though she were about to take part in a normal sports lesson. Rowena circled her, carefully inspecting her outfit for faults, evidently finding none. She stood directly in front of Sophie and they stared into each other's eyes, willing the other to speak or look away.
Eventually, Rowena stepped back and addressed Sophie in her ‘reasonable’ voice.
'Well done, Grant! You have arrived punctually and dressed according to my instructions. I assume from this that you wish the punishment to proceed as agreed?'
Sophie looked away and mumbled an affirmative response
'Good, good. I suppose you are dressed exactly as required?' Rowena asked ominously. We looked at each other in confusion: anyone could see that Sophie was wearing our full PE kit. Still regarding the toes of her gym shoes, Sophie muttered something to the effect of 'Of course', but started violently as Rowena snatched up the side of the flared shorts, revealing scanty pink knickers beneath. Again, once we were in the sixth form, school rules about underclothing were not enforced, but evidently Rowena wanted Sophie to fully adopt the role of naughty schoolgirl, panties and all.
‘I really don't think these are regulation knickers, Grant. ' she said 'Remove your right plimsoll.' The embarrassment Sophie felt must have been almost matched by that of the rest of us. There was a games mistress in the school who, if she caught a pupil wearing non-regulation briefs for her class, would make the girl remove one of her plimsolls and spank her behind with it. Surely Rowena wouldn’t ... ? But she did. 'Touch your toes. Grant’ she commanded and then proceeded to slap the backs of Sophie's thighs twice, just below her bum-cheeks. A red disc appeared on the back of each leg, obviously quite painful, but Sophie stoically ignored them as she replaced her shoe and tied the lace. She then presented herself to the group once more, now slightly flushed.
'We won't waste time, Grant,' said Rowena fetching the long whippy cane from where she had earlier propped it in the corner. 'Tonight's punishment is for breaking school bounds and as you know, you are to receive eight strokes of the Head Girl’s cane on your bottom. Tell me that you agree that the punishment is fair and that you wish me to administer it now.'
After a moment's pause. Sophie recited, 'I broke school bounds and deserve to receive eight strokes of your cane on my bottom. Please begin my punishment, Rowena’.'
'Bend ever the bars, Grant.'
The horizontal parallel bars had been set up with the lower one just a few inches above the floor. The other one was fixed around waist level. The equipment used to facilitate a thrashing varied according to the Prefects' moods: sometimes it was the vaulting horse, on the other occasions the box,yet others might find the victim kneeling over the low wooden forms. By far the favourite piece of apparatus, however, if the girl was well-developed, was the horizontal bars, positioned so that she had to really stretch to grip the lower beam and thus accentuating the target area.
Sophie sighed in resignation to her fate, stood on tiptoe and draped herself over the hard smooth wooden upper bar, grasping the edge of the wooden beam with her fingertips and spreading her legs to maintain her balance. We all knew, from personal and vicarious experience, how difficult it was to maintain this position, because it put a great strain or one’s leg muscles and one always felt that the slightest movement of either limb would cause one to roll over the bars completely. The feeling of vulnerability was therefore very intense. We knew from information gathered throughout the grapevine that at St Pats only one bar was used at waist level with the boys arms spread along it. However, we preferred our technique - or at least, we did if we were the caner rather than the canee.
Rowena stood behind and slightly to the left of Sophie, her arm raising the supple cane high slowly and deliberately. We were mesmerised by the sight, silently arranging ourselves around her, but out of the range of the cane, for a better view.

Suddenly the weapon sliced through the air – far too quickly for our eyes to follow and landed and landed with an echoing CRACK across Sophie Grant's curvy rear. She grunted, but retained her composure. The second stroke fell after a moment’s pause, giving the recipient just enough time to fully appreciate the effect of its predecessor before impact of its own sting slightly lower down the navy-clad rump. Apart from a short gasp and adjusting her fingers on the lower rail, though, Sophie remained quietly dignified.

The loose-fitting pleated shorts rode up and flared over her raised bottom outlining it perfectly and revealing the frill of the illicit pink panties clearly visible. On being reminded of this additional disobedience Rowena clearly decided that further humiliation was deserved and grabbed the waistband of the shorts and dragged them down to poor Sophie’s knees. Somehow the sight of the two bum-cheeks tightly clad in a tiny pair of sexy knickers was even more shocking. Her bottom was scarcely protected and our head girl imparted the next strokes with slow deliberation –each one landing with full force on the drum-tight nylon - a heart-stopping WHIP-THWACK - on a different section of Sophie's behind and timed to afford maximum effect.
Throughout, Sophie remained almost silent, very obviously striving not to give Rowena the satisfaction of a response, and this was increasing Rowena's anger.
After the fourth stroke flashed, Rowena allowed a longer pause than had hitherto been the trend –possibly to rest her arm - and delivered a short lecture.
You must realise, Grant, that I am not administering this punishment out of personal anger, but because you have behaved in such an outrageous manner that no other way can be found to make you suitably penitent.You acknowledged as much when you asked me give you the caning. We are now hallway through this stage of your thrashing: the next four strokes will encourage you to reconsider your actions and modify your behaviour in the future. I also hope that the fact that I have exposed your knickers to the rest of the prefects will make you obey school uniform rules in future.
Stepping back, she raised the cane high so that it whistled its way on to the target - the flesh just below the line of Sophie's skimpy panties. There was a harsher sound of impact and now it was impossible for Sophie not to react. She groaned deeply as the cane struck home, and then let go of the lower bar for an instant in a reflexive impulse to rub her rear. She knew better than to do so, however, and with her lower lip visibly trembling, she forced herself to remain in position. Rowena paused for several seconds, during which Sophie must have felt all our eyes burning holes in her up-thrust buttocks.
Number six landed loudly, parallel to and just below the stroke before. Now Sophie's instincts got the better of her and she brought her arms up to grasp the upper beam, her back arching, gasping, with tears spurting from under clenched eyelids
'Get back into position at once, Grant!'
'No,' Sophie sobbed 'Please, Rowena, that's enough. You've made your point. I'm sorry about what I did but I just can’t take any more...'
She turned to face her chastiser and just the look on Rowena's face compelled her to once more take up her undignified stance. Slowly, she once again upended herself, two lurid red weals now glaringly visible below the flimsy knickers.
Once again, Rowena made her wait, all but inviting us lesser prefects to feast our gaze on Sophie Grant’s humiliated bottom.
Finally, as it if it would never happen,the cane described its shrill arc, landing with a startling THWACK below its predecessors. There were now three angry parallel lines close together on the soft vanilla-toned flesh. The effect on Sophie was almost comica1 as she sobbed and spluttered and kicked her legs compulsively, Rowena observed silently until Sophie quietened down again and then raised her arm for the
final swipe. By now Sophie was beyond responding and merely sobbed hysterically as It arrived predictably even lower just where her bottom cheeks joined her thighs. Rowena's interest was obviously waning now that Sophie had lost control and been reduced to begging in vain. She stared impassively at her victim's heaving backside and the fiery band at the top of Sophie's legs. The marks from the plimsoll slaps barely showed in comparison.
It was a long, long time before Sophie's crying subsided into pitiful whimpers and the beaten girl eventually managed to ease herself back over the parallel bars and stand upright.
Her face looked as red and puffy as the area Rowena had punished and she made no attempt to wipe away the tears or rub her anguished posterior. She looked a sorry sight with her shorts down by her ankles and her pain as she bent down to pull them up was all-too-obvious.
She seemed completely stunned.
In a low, calm voice Rowena said 'We'll see you here at the same time next week. When you have become yourself again, return to your dormitory. Goodnight.'
We fell in behind her and trooped back to our sleeping quarters leaving Sophie to shower and change and think. That night I found it very hard sleep.
The following week was uneventful and Sophie avoided our company. She made some excuse to get out of games and swimming, so we presumed that the evidence of her harsh chastisement was still visible.
On Friday night we assembled as before and exactly on time Sophie arrived. Again, she appeared impeccably turned out, though with more apparent signs of nervousness. Rowena once again circled her, tapping the long cane against the palm of her own hand.
'What kind of knickers are you wearing, Grant?' she barked
'Regulation navy'
'Prove it. Remove your shorts’
Realising that argument was futile, Sophie resignedly unfastened the hook al the side of her shorts and undid the zip. With as much dignity as the situation allowed, she slipped the navy folds down the full length of her splendid legs and stepped out of them. I assumed that this indicated an intention on Rowena's part to cane Sophie in just her briefs.
'So you are. Take them off.'
'WHAT?'
Sophie's surprise was shared by us all because of its implication. I was shocked to realise that Rowena obviously intended to administer a bare bottom caning - an extreme rarity, even where younger pupils were concerned.
I felt my own bum-cheeks clench in sympathetic shame and anticipation, but a certain surging in my belly also told me I was intrigued - if not excited - by the prospect.
We watched, fascinated, as the schoolgirl knickers - a souvenir from much earlier days, to judge by the painfully and revealing tight fit slowly descended the shapely columns to join the shorts on the floor.
'Very good. Grant’ Rowena gloated
'You obviously learnt something from last week's session. Let me know you understand why we are here and how you wish me to punish you'
Sophie bit her lower lip so hard I was surprised she didn't break the skin, but at last she said very softly, in a monotone, 'We are here because 1 need to be punished for breaking the school rules. 1 would like you to deliver eight strokes of the cane on my naked bottom'
'Very well. Grant. If you insist. Take up your position’
Once again. Sophie's well developed form draped itself over the pre-positioned bars. Without her shorts to hold it in place, her shirt rode up high on her back, leaving a bare expanse from above her waist down to her ankle socks. Her bottom and thighs were drawn taut and clearly visible were three grazes and several small bruises where the cane had hit the naked flesh the week before. They were mimicked by a long line around her waist and at the top of each thigh where the tight panties had pinched. Because of the need to part and stretch her legs in order to maintain balance, we had a clear view of Sophie's teak toned pubic hair making her seem even more vulnerable and exposed
'COUNT EACH STROKE ALOUD’ ordered Rowena and with no more ado brought the first swipe down hard below the base of Sophie's back where her buttocks began the division.
Sophie's head bucked up, but she called out 'One' clearly and strongly 'Two,' she called. as the next landed with a sharp TWANG about an inch below.
‘Three’ and 'Four' were each gasped between clenched teeth as they landed close together on the crown of her seat which was now writhing over the beam.
'Five' was shrieked as the cane cracked down across the very centre of the punishment area. The force of it caused Sophie to snap upright her hands scrabbling to rub away the smart.
'Return to your correct position at once unless you want extra strokes you disobedient girl.'ordered Rowena.
'NO!' sobbed Sophie, her skin glowing with perspiration and her face awash with tears.
'BEND OVER!' she was commanded
Slowly she raised herself up and bent over the top bar. Eventually she found the strength and willpower to remove her hands from her backside and once more take hold of the lower beam.
'Six.' she mumbled just after the glowing spheres absorbed another biting whack. If Rowena continued to follow this path, she would inevitably strike the thigh flesh still tender from the previous week's ministrations. She paused and openly considered the situation.
The expanse of Sophie’s rear was covered with carefully spaced vivid raised red lines, looking awfully painful. Joining each weal to its neighbour was a paler pinkish band. I had never witnessed so harsh a punishment before and couldn’t really believe that Rowena would inflict yet another two strokes. Six of the best seemed more than enough somehow. However, even as I contemplated on this matter, Sophie’s tormentor was raising in the air and then swishing across the raging tramlines to light a long diagonal fire over both cheeks, top right to bottom left.
‘Seven’ she lisped, her bared buttocks continuing to spasm and shake.
'Eight!' she cried in a tear cracked croak but made no attempt to rise.
We gazed appalled at the evidence of our ‘justice’. Contrary to popular fantasy, girls boarding schools are not populated by elfin nymphets or curvaceous sex goddesses cavorting about naked in each other's beds. We tended to be very modest and scarcely ever saw one another unclothed. Certainly seeing Sophie's private areas on display was something of a revelation and even through the disfiguring welts, the soft fullness was undeniably alluring. I wanted to trace the patterns of the weals with my fingertips, to feel their texture and warmth. I also wondered how my own anatomy would have borne up under those circumstances.
'Same time next week’ Rowena murmured - herself somewhat subdued and left the gym. Someone went to assist Sophie, whose teeth were chattering and whose limbs obviously were not responding to her attempts to stand. Unfortunately, Rowena came back at that moment and saw this breach of protocol.
‘Julie Clements, how dare you help a disgraced pupil – do you want a trashing too?’ Julie looked terrified and apologised at once – in her current mood, Rowena might decide to beat any of us. ‘Very well, I’ll excuse you but if any of you breach discipline again you will be punished just as Sophie has been. Julie, you're now on my watch list if there's the slightest breach I'll have your knickers down for six stingers with the strap’.
We left poor Sophie gathering up her discarded garments, all of us sharing common mixture of shame for our part in her humiliation, excitement at what we had witnessed and contempt her weakness in bringing it upon herself and then putting up with it. But above anything else we were now terrified that if we gave her the slightest excuse, Rowena would have our bottom’s bared and would be bringing her viscious cane down without mercy.

* * * * *
Once more, Sophie avoided contact with the rest of us during the ensuing days. Some of us tried to persuade Rowena to cal1 off the two remaining appointments but no mercy however was forthcoming and we just risked her punishing us for insubordination.

Midnight Friday found us yet again in attendance in the gym. The school clock chimed twelve and we heard the click of the door to the changing room opening, but it must have been a full minute before Sophie silently and sullenly joined us.
‘I thought we’d change the procedure tonight, Grant, I borrowed this from our friends at St Patrick's and we thought we'd try it out. Arms outstretched towards Sophie, Rowena displayed a two-tongued tawse. We had heard of this famous implement from our contacts at the boys' school, but until now we had never actually seen it. To my eyes it possessed a magnetic threatening power and looking at it I felt a churning in my guts. I just kept thinking how someone had deliberately cut the leather with the explicit intention of creating a painful weopon to punish the bottoms of naughtly schoolgirls. What went through that person's mind as they did their job? My mind boggled.
‘As this will be a new experience for all of us, Grant’ Rowena said matter of factly, '1 would like you to write an account of tonight’s activity so that we can all gain greater understanding. It doesn't have to be a particularly long report, but I would like it to be fully detailed - 'graphic ' 1 think is the appropriate word. Let us know how it feels. Write it over me weekend and put neat copies in our pigeon-holes by Monday lunch-time. Right get ready.
Sophie arranged herself in the familiar position and awaited her fate.
On Monday, each of us received a copy of her account.
Rowena told me to get in position for the third stage of my punishment. As instructed, I was wearing my old gymslip with tight white knickers underneath. I was very nervous as I had no idea how the tawse would feel and my bottom was still very sore from the bare-arse caning I had received the previous week. - The individual cuts were still clearly visible and I still felt bruised and tender. Although not particularly thick, I hoped my knickers would offer some kind of protection. I assumed, correctly, that Rowena would make me raise my skirt.
The first blow was almost reassuring, it landed squarely on the centre of my bottom and although very heavy it had none of the excruciating bite of the cane. I absorbed the first two strokes with barely a murmur as they were spaced well apart. The third landed on top of an earlier one. though, and it made me yelp. My bottom began to progress from a feeling of tolerable warmth to uncomfortable heat.
Rowena then decided that I wasn’t suffering enough and decided to take my knickers down. Like last time, this was incredibly embarrassing but worse it exposed my tender flesh to the strap much more directly. I found the next three blows almost unbearable as each fell on a part of me that had either already been hit or was exceptionally sore from the earlier caning. The tongues of the tawse splayed out so that the impact was doubled each time spreading the scorching discomfort much more quickly and effectively. My feet started kicking up behind me and I found it really difficult to stop them, although I was terrified of losing my balance and toppling over the bars.
Given that the tawse was new to us all. Rowena showed remarkable dexterity in making the final two blows land alternately on each cheek.. Later I was to see that the way the strap was divided made each stroke from it leave two distinct impressions.. The pain was incredible and I shrieked and cried like a child.
When the others had left. I hobbled into the changing room as I had the previous weeks and ran a cool shower. I stripped off and examined my reflection in one of the full length mirrors. I was shocked by the appearance of my bottom. The marks that remained from the cane were now highlights on a vista of angry solid red, with my thighs each bearing four broad scarlet bands. I knew from my earlier experience that these would be more irritating than the damage to my actual bullocks as my skirt and knickers would constantly graze them at even the slightest movement.
I took my shower and towelled dry - gently – in front of the mirror. As well as being sore and red, I was aware that my bottom was also swollen. The flesh feeling spongy to my touch. This was confirmed when I tried to put my panties on. My skin was too sensitive to be able to wear them. So I just wore my gymslip to return to the dorm. I slept. on my tummy and in the morning my bottom had returned to its normal size, although the high colour remained.
I am relieved to think that next week will bring an end to these painful beatings and in some ways wish the appointment could be brought forward. But I know that my bottom could not withstand further chastisement in its present delicate state.
None of us acknowledged receipt of the missive and we never alluded to its contents. I must confess, however, that 1 found them fascinating and reread my copy on more than a few occasions resolving to try the tawse out on a naughty junior as soon as I could find the excuse.
We met for the final session in the usual way and were surprised to find Sophie suitably attired and already waiting for us.
Rowena went to the store cupboard and came back triumphantly brandishing what at first seemed to be a bundle of twigs. Then we realised its true nature - it was a four-branched birch. We had once long ago read an account of soccer hoo1igans being birched on the Isle of Man and had spent many subsequent free periods speculating on this savage tool.
'Rowena, said Sarah, a normally fairly reserved member of the prefectoral group. 'You can't possibly give eight strokes with the birch. As it's got four parts, why not give her just three?' .
Rowena smiled sweetly. 'Of course I wouldn't dream of administering eight strokes from this. I had already decided to reduce the punishment to four. But one more word from you, Sarah and you’ll be bending over those bars to receive the other four yourself. Now, Grant, are you ready?’
Sophie eyes the dreaded weapon. ‘Please deliver four blows of the birch to my behind Rowena’ she said woodenly.
For the first time I saw somebody’s knees literally knock together as Sophie lurched towards the bars.
'Remove your shorts, they'll get in the way’ Rowena told her. 'You can keep your knickers on, though’
Trembling Visibly, Sophie prepared herself. Her knuckles were white, she gripped the lower bar. The navy knickers were stretched over the firm, round globes so that her burgeoning buttocks looked like ripe fruits trying to burst their skins.

The first stroke landed with a vicious swish, bringing forth an animal wail from its subject. She jerked spasmodically, causing the second stroke to catch her naked thighs. A rhythmic panting scream burst forth and Rowena - obviously shocked by the strength Sophie's reaction – delivered the final two blows swiftly and without a clearly-defined aim. Scarlet streaks criss-crossed one another maniacally. Sophie's gyrations made her soft buttock flesh ripple. It was as though her knickers contained a pair of wild animals fighting to escape the confines. Amidst the stark whiteness of her shirt and against dark soberness of her panties and the milky-paleness of her skin the crimson slashes stood out in a crazy trellis her thigh-tops where they could be seen Sophie screamed and sobbed for half an hour and we all except Rowena, sat with her until she felt strong enough to shower. As she undressed we saw the full damage inflicted by the birch to the tender nether regions and each one of us gave an involuntary shudder.
* * * *

It was a few weeks later that we were all lined up in assembly seated, as normal, behind Dr Tern and the rest of the staff. The headmistress stood at the lectern and said ‘I have today a very unpleasant duty. I leaned yesterday that a few weeks ago a major breach of school discipline took place when Sophie Grant was found to have broken bounds. Unfortunately, rather than refer this to me, our Head Girl, decided to take it upon herself to inflict punishment. Her chosen method has now been revealed to me by Grant’s parents and I have to say I am shocked at the savagery of the thrashings meted out. Grant has been in considerable discomfort for some time afterwards and her parents have threatened action against the school’
As the head went on I looked at Rowena – sitting, immaculately dressed as ever, and staring straight ahead without apparent concern.
‘Rowena Davies has been a fine pupil of this school and an excellent head girl but this almost sadistic beating of another girl goes way beyond what is acceptable. It is a flagrant breach of protocol and I have no option but to punish you, Rowena.’
The head girl, for the first time in her life, looked genuinely frightened.
‘Punish me?’ she said ‘but I’m head girl’.
‘That’s as may be’ replied Dr Tern ‘You have exceeded your remit and you must be punished. Since you chose to thrash Sophie Grant in front of her peers I have decided it is right to do the same to you. And I’ve decided to do it right now to avoid dragging this distressing incident out. Please step forward, Davies.’
One thing I’ll say for Rowena, she’s not a coward. She clearly knew that arguing was pointless and would only humiliate her further. She stepped forward stoically and looked straight at the headmistress.
‘I apologise for what I did, Dr Tern, but Sophie deserved a sound beating. I realise I broke school rules by administering it myself and I now deserve to be punished. Please let me know my fate’
Dr Tern rarely administered the cane but today was to be an exception. ‘You will receive twelve strokes of the cane, Rowena. Six on the best over your knickers and the final six on the bare. Now please remove your skirt and bend over, grasping your ankles.
With the whole school watching in awe, the head girl unzipped her elegant navy skirt and pulled it down over her bottom and stepped neatly out of it. The sight that then greeted us what more like something from a glamour mag than a schoolroom. Rowena was wearing a set of knickers and suspenders in purest white of the sexiest kind. A broderie anglaise pattern across the seat of the pants allowed her honey brown flesh to show thorough. Dark stockings set off her legs.
’I’ve no doubt you’d award extra strokes for non-regulation uniform, Rowena’ remarked Dr Tern sarcastically ‘but I think you’ll find the thrashing I’m going to administer quite sufficient. Now bend over’
Rowena did so, the fullness of her bottom tightening the fabric of the knickers to bursting point. Dr Tern picked up a thick but flexible cane from behind the lectern and tested it on the drum-tight satin. Then, quite suddenly, she raised it and whacked it down on Rowena’s bottom.
I won’t describe the next few strokes but, as I’d expect, Rowena made no sound and merely counted each stroke ‘one, thank you Dr Tern, two, thank you Dr Tern...’ and so on. The head hit hard but you wouldn’t have thought so from Rowena’s demeanour. She was so strong.
At the sixth stroke Dr Tern paused.
‘Well taken, Davies’ She said ‘But I doubt whether you’ll find the next six so easily. Let’s have these down now, shall we?’
With that rhetorical question, the head slipped her fingers into the waistband of those little panties and peeled them very slowly down to the stocking-tops.
‘Legs apart, let’s not let them fall too far’ she said.
Rowena’s bottom was a beauty but I couldn’t help wondering how she had taken the first six strokes so well since you could already see the stripes from the cane very clearly. I didn’t have time to think about this for long, though, as Dr Tern continued the beating.
The cane whacked down really hard on Rowena’s left cheek and now she did cry out. That clearly encouraged the Head for the eighth stroke was a cracker, landing with full force right across the centre of poor Rowena’s buttocks.
And the final four were equally brutal – Dr Tern was now caning to hurt and hurt she certainly did. Rowena’s lags kicked up at each strokes and her knickers fell down to her ankles. She was crying openly.
At last the twelfth stroke fell and Dr Tern delivered her final words
‘Stand up now and pull your knickers back up. You have taken your punishment well, Rowena but let me warn you. If I ever find you exceeding your authority again you will be back here for more and it will be significantly more severe. You gave grant the tawse and the birch as well, I believe and I’m very tempted to do the same to you. If you are ever in breach again, rest assured, your bottom will be the worse for it’.
With that she marched off the stage and Rowena pulled her skirt back on and led us off too. She looked in pain but held herself characteristically straight.
I wondered if she would ever refer to the incident again. She didn’t but her standards became even higher and at any excuse, it seemed, any of the girls could find themselves summoned for punishment. That was just the way Rowena liked it.