Back to School

This is a well-worn theme but this story - from Janus - is an outstanding example of the genre. It has wonderful flashbacks and the heroine is totally deserving of her hard, belated, punishment. In the original she gets the slipper at school but I find the tawse a much more suitable implement. Great Paula illustration, too - correct in every detail including the knickers round the ankles.

Selina turned the amber-coloured Volvo off the little side street and up the curling drive. Gravel crunched under the tread of the new tyres. The spreading evergreen still stood at the back of the building, its branches shading the bay windows and the mellow old brickwork. She parked the car and turned off the purring engine and lit a long expensive cigarette and gazed at the house and what she could see of the grounds. It had been, she reflected, more than a dozen years since she had last seen this view.
After a few moments she flung open the car door and stepped out shaking out the skirt of her two-piece and dipping into the car for her elegant beige leather handbag. She flung her half-smoked cigarette onto the gravel without bothering to put it out and slammed the car door, walking away without locking it. The autumn breeze lifted the fringe of fine blonde hair from her brow.
When she stepped through the door and into the corridor, off which led the doors to most of the ground floor classrooms, she was at first struck by how small the place seem. The ceilings had been higher, the polished boards wider and more glossy,the panelled walls endless, she thought.
'Of course’ she murmured to herself. 'I wasn't even quite ten. The place must have seemed a lot grander. After all, I’d seen little enough of the world. Now then, where's the staircase?’
At this hour of the early evening - before classes had commenced - there were but a few people in the old priory which had been the scene of Salina’s schooldays. The one or two members of the administrative staff who passed her directed a curious glance or two at her, but her confident bearing and cut of her clothes gave her an air of authority, as if she had every right to be there. Then Selina came to with a start. She looked around the classroom as if the cut of her clothes gave her an air of authority, as if she had every right to be there. No one challenged her. And she was making her way so directly to where she was going that nobody thought to ask if she needed directions. She ascended the oaken staircase.
The paintings that had been on the walls in her day were no longer there. Kept by the trustees, she guessed, when they had sold the building to the local authority to be an annexe of the technical college and evening institute, and the small private school had moved out into rural Warwickshire.
Miss Felton's form room was where she remembered it: at the head of me stairs, across the landing. The branches of the evergreen swung near the panes of the bay window. She fancied she could still sense the chalk dust in the air, although the old blackboard on its tripod had gone, replaced by a modern whiteboard on the end wall. The walls were bare except for a few timetables and fire regulations. The heavy old desks and chairs, scored by innumerable compass points and pen knives, had been superseded by insipid modern furniture. Miss Felton’s desk, raised on a dais a foot so she could stare down on her pupils in regal authority, was replaced by an ordinary table with a Formica top.
Selina closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, her hands pressed flat between the wood and her bottom, and took a deep breath. The years fell away and it seemed as though she could hear the scratch of pens, and the rustle of textbook pages, the measured tread of Miss Fulton patrolling the ranks of desks as a class of a dozen girls laboured over their set task. It seemed as though she could hear the hissing whispers of the fair haired girl with the page-boy haircut, a rather florid girl who was an incessant chatterer – what had been her name? Gail. Gail Wethered.
‘Gail Wethered. Come here at once girl! How many times do you think I am going to tell you?’
The hush that instantly fell upon the class of sixteen-year-olds was that of a dozen girls holding their breath. Gail’s round face had instantly constricted with something approaching panic as she heard her name rapped out in that tone. Her china blue eyes were as round as saucers and her jaw hung down.. She gulped and shot a look at Selina before rising to her feet. Selina, perhaps disloyally, just felt enormously glad that she had merely been the slightly irritated target of Gail’s whispered chatter. She had not reciprocated nor had she, it seemed, been included in Gail’s crime. Miss Felton was standing, hands on her hips, in stern reproof, in front of the class. Her position made her look even more formidable. She tapped her foot, once. As if stung by this sign of increasing displeasure, Gail leapt to her feet and scampered out to the front of the class, the hem of her dark gray pleated skirt bobbing, Miss Felton waited until she had stopped and then thrust her face forward into that of the trembling blonde.
‘Did you hear me when I reprimanded you for talking not ten minutes ago?’ she asked, her voice low and even.
Gail seemed to shrug. ‘No Miss, I mean yes Miss’
‘Are you trying to disturb the entire class, is that it? When I specifically tell you there is to be no talking, you deliberately defy me?’. . . . , ‘N-no Miss’.
'Turn around and face the class. Stand in front of that desk there'. Miss Felton propelled the unlucky pupil about-face by one shoulder, shoving her against the edge of one of the empty desks which always somehow gathered in the front row.
‘Get across it.'
'Oh no, Miss, please!'
'Are you arguing with me?’ Miss Felton's tone was icy. ‘No Miss’ Gail mumbled miserably, leaning forward over the desk so that her hair swung around her face. Miss Felton picked up the heavy wooden ruler from her own desk top.
‘Right down, Gail.' The girl grimaced and leaned even further forward flattening her rounded breasts against the wood surface which sloped down and away from her. Her rear end was now higher than her head. Miss Felton seized the hem of the short pleated skirt and flung it up around the girl's waist. Selina and the class rest of the class drew a corporate breath of teenage horror. They were then treated to the sight of Miss Felton taking hold of what they rightly supposed to be the waistband of Gail's knickers.
Poor Gail gave a wail and attempted to stand up, clapping her hands behind her in a vain effort to stem the tide of indignity being visited upon her. But Miss Felton simply and expertly crossed Gail's wrists at the small of her back and, holding her thus down bent her over the desk.
The class could now be in little doubt as to what was about to follow. They could see Gail's face, but not her bottom. Those at the sides of the classroom craned for a better view of the brief panties now resident around her knees, Miss Felton lifted the ruler above her shoulder and brought it swooping down onto that ignominiously bared behind where it landed with a crack which echoed across the room. Gail's yell was ear-splitting.
'Aargh' she howled, and all Serena’s nerves were thrilled by the sound. The ruler went up and down again with speed and regularity, its reports punctuating Gail's squeals and Miss Felton's remonstrance.
'In future -' Whack ! 'Owwch ' - you will keep quiet when you are told -'Whack! 'EEErgh! '- and if you ever dare - ' Whack! 'Yeeeow!" – to disobey again. ‘Whack’ 'Owwwww! ‘then you will find that - ' Whack! 'Ouch. oh. Please’ a taste of the cane will soon deter you from -' Whack! 'Ooooh - - ever doing so again!' Whack! 'EEEEEK!' 'Now get back to your seat!'

Miss Felton turned and strode back to her desk. Poor Gail scrambled her panties up beneath her skirt wincing as the elastic scraped across her flaming cheeks, then hurried, head down, back to her place beside Selina. She sat down, and immediately rose again, with something which started out to be a screech, but which, at a glance from Miss Felton, was quickly cut off. She snuffled a little throughout the rest of the lesson but was more silent than Selina had ever known. Her cheeks were still wet when the bell rang.
* * *
Selina came to with a start. She looked around the classroom as if surprised that it no longer contained the hushed class, the cowed Gail and the imperious Miss Felton. Daydreaming again, she thought to herself, and giving a shrug, left the room and started down the stairs to the college office.
To her surprise, the room which had housed the school office was now a classroom, the original door from the hallway bricked up. A half-glassed door bearing the sign 'College Administration' was in front of what she remembered as the principal's office.
Selina entered without knocking, causing the single occupant of the room, a middle-aged woman seated before a typewriter, to look up.
'Can I help you’ she asked.
'You may be able to' answered Selina briskly, striding so purposefully to the counter that her full skirt positively swished around her slender knees. She placed her handbag on the counter and paused for a moment to let her appearance have its customary effect. It usually got the desired results from people employed in menial positions.
She was tall for a woman, five feet eight without heels, and her model's training showed in her walk. Her sheer hose, high heels and careful and exquisite make-up all combined with the
obvious expense of her outfit to give the impression of privileged elegance; a woman who had no need to work and no worries over money. The fine fair hair framed her face and fell neatly around the collar of her jacket. The green eyes. Set above a rather long, straight nose, were cool and aristocratic. They were the eyes of a woman who, at the age of 29, had grown used to getting her own way.
When she was convinced that the other was suitably impressed. Selina spoke.
'You are aware, perhaps, that this building was formerly the Priory Academy for Young ladies? A private school? Before it was sold to the local authority and turned into...’ Selina flapped her gloves around her in a gesture of distaste. 'In those days it was presided over by a Miss Felton. MA (Oxon) I believe who -'
'Miss Felton, yes, that's right’
'I beg your pardon?' Selina, irritated by the interruption, looked hard at the woman behind the typewriter. 'You know of her? I am trying to trace her’
'I don't know of her’ replied the woman archly. 'I know her, she teaches English here on Tuesdays and Thursdays’
'She does?’ Selina was momentarily taken aback. 'I had thought that she had retired, I expected to find her at an address in the country somewhere. Tuesdays and Thursdays, you say? Will she be in this evening?'
'It's a Thursday. isn't it?'
Really thought Selina, some people scarcely know their place.
She extracted a small gold propelling pencil and a leather-bound notebook from her handbag and wrote busily for some moments.
‘Would you give this to her' She passed over the folded slip of paper.
'Why not wait for her!' asked the woman. 'Her class starts at six and she's always well ahead of time’
'No thank you’ said Selina, turning to go, firm in her determination to be in the driving seat when she finally did come face to face with Miss Felton again after all these years. The woman had always had such a powerful personality that Selina, like all her classmates, had been in awe of her. Going back to try to beard her in her den after all this time was an attempt to exorcise the power she had once wielded. She, Selina, was now in possession of both wealth and position. Miss Felton was stuck: apparently still teaching bored office girls and surly louts at night school. She did not seem to have prospered. With her acquired poise and experience Selina knew she ought to emerge victorious in any confrontation but she still felt some kind of disquiet which convinced her she ought to choose her ground. She moved towards the door briskly then suddenly halted, her attention arrested. Something about the way the light fell had shown her a glimpse of this room as it used to be. Long and richly carpeted with leather furniture. She had a sudden memory of Betty Trask, dark and curly-haired and 17 (just the same as Selina herself), face down over Miss Felton's lap. She could see the dark grey gymslip crumpled around her waist, her little blue knickers around the gyrating knees. The sound of the tawse was like a pistol shot each time its twin tails landed and Betty was squealing and promising, her hands firmly held in the small of her back out of the way of that devilish strap. Selina's throat was dry and she had felt momentarily dizzy. The trepidation that she felt as she watched the poor girl take her well-deserved punishment.
‘Er...I said is there anything else?’
Selina jolted herself out of her reverie and went towards the door. 'Just see the message is deliverer’ she said thickly. ‘That will be all.’ She left the office and then went out of the building and down the drive, past her Volvo.
* * *
The interior of the pub was quiet at that hour. Selina walked in with the newly bought local evening paper and stood at the bar to order a vodka and tonic. The landlord, when he perceived that she was alone, looked her up and down suspiciously, Selina glared at him and he looked away, abashed. 'Anyone of my class who was on the game wouldn't pick this hole,' thought Selina crossly and sat down and opened her paper.
Try as she might, she could not help but feel a creeping and gradually growing nervousness. It was foolish, she told herself. Even if she comes, which I doubt, she's an old woman now. The school seemed so much smaller and so will she. She'1l be old and feeble now, and I'll be able to get free of her lurking shadow.
She signalled to the landlord for another drink. After her glare and her action in sitting in one of the alcoves, disdainfully glancing at the decor and shaking out her skirts like a dowager duchess at a state function, he had come over, drywashing his hands and being very considerate. Could he get her anything? She was waiting for someone, perhaps? She agreed that she was and allowed him to fetch her next drink. This was her third, on an empty stomach.
She began to feel mellow and her mind began to drift ... Betty Trask had levered herself off Miss Felton's knee and stumbled tearfully away, rubbing her blistered behind. Then, Miss Felton beckoned sternly, fixing Selina herself with a severe glare.
Gulping, with eyes downcast, Selina went forward on dragging feet. She came to a halt within a couple of feet of the tailored tweed knees.
'Bare your bottom,' rapped the mistress. 'And get across my lap this minute. Come along, girl!'
Swallowing hard, Selina hoicked up the back of her grey skirt and pulled her brief white knickers down to her knees. Her face burned with embarrassment. Avoiding the piercing gaze she left her knickers around her knees, then lifted up the folds of her skirt at the back and leaned forward. At the point when she could go over no further without toppling, she put her hands on Miss Felton's left leg (the skirt stayed up by itself now) and lowered her weight across the woman's lap. She felt the rough texture of the skirt, scratchy on her soft bare thighs. Her bottom felt huge and vulnerable and way up above and behind her. She felt it clench and twitch. Her hands moved down onto the floor and she balanced herself by placing her palms flat on the carpet. Far away, she could hear Betty Trask snivelling and Miss Felton seemed to be lecturing her but her head spun and the wisps of blonde hair which escaped her plaits tickled her chin. Then there was a pause and she caught her breath. All of a sudden she felt the impact of the tawse on her buttocks, numbing at first and then hot and stinging.
'Oww!' she heard herself squeal.
Whack! The strap landed again.
'OOOOh’ howled Selina, her hands flying back behind her as she reared up. She heard Miss Felton's voice raised in reproof and felt her hands seized in a firm grip.
Whack! The tawse seared across her soft curves, her hips churned and swivelled around on Miss Felton's lap.
Whack!
'Owww! Oh please, Miss -'
Whack!
'Eeeek! Oh Miss, no more, please -'
Whack!
Would it never end? Would Miss Felton's hand rise and fall until Selina lost all her composure?
Whack!
'Oh, ow, ooh - I'll - '
Whack !
'Miss. I'll be good, I will!' -

* * *
'Well, well, so it is you! little Selina Smith! After all this time’
Selina looked up, totally flustered. A figure, weighed down with a satchel full of books, stood before her.
'Uhh, actually, it's Selina Parker, now, uum, Miss Felton, excuse me. I I I was miles away, s s s-sorry'.
Damn the woman, thought Selina, standing up, first waving to the landlord and then offering her hand, coloured with confusion.
She has me stammering like a schoolgirl already, she realised.
Miss Felton accepted the offer of a dry sherry and seated herself with the minimum of fuss. Selina was disconcerted to note that she had not aged at all and looked no less firm and determined than she ever had.
'Well now, Selina, you’ve changed your name I see, Married, then! And what does your husband do! Where do you live? Have you children? I always enjoy meeting my former pupils. How long have you been married?'
Selina suddenly found herself pouring everything out. What on earth is the matter with me?’ she found herself thinking. Her mouth was running away with her. She could herself blurting out all the troubles of her marriage and how Derek had suggested that they had a trial separation and think about divorce. She even told Miss Felton how she had blocked Derek's chance of promotion by refusing to live in Geneva - 'too antiseptic a town' she had said. All the dissatisfactions with her life poured out of her, all that she felt was wrong about the privileges and the ‘easy life'. I must be drunk. she thought.
Miss. Felton listened to it all, sipping her sherry. Finally, when she put the glass down, it was empty. She allowed Selina to call for it to be refilled, and watched with lips primmed in self-evident disapproval as Selina ordered a double for herself. And then when silence had fallen between them and Selina, if it were not for the effects of the alcohol, would have been feeling thoroughly silly, she spoke her voice low and non-committal.
‘What happened to the Waterford Glass?’ she asked.
Selina gaped. How on earth - ? She gulped and stumbled and it was a long time before she found her voice. 'I suppose you want the truth this time she said, at about quarter volume.
‘That would be best, yes, I never was given it before, was I?’
'I broke it. That is, er, someone else broke it and it was because of me that they did. I'm sorry, I don't think I can give you the other name. It would be like snitching, even now.'
Miss Felton inclined her head. ‘I can understand that’ she said.
Selina experienced the same warm glow which praise from this older woman had always caused her and marvelled that it should have the same effect all these years later.
'Do you want to tell me how it came about!" asked Miss Felton, lifting the sherry glass to her lips.
Selina shrugged. 'We were in the staff room where it was laid out - where we had no business being, of course - and she said something I didn't like so I pushed her and she pushed me back and I pushed her again, but a lot harder this time and she
cannoned into the table where it was all set out and crash over it all went. Funny, really, that's what we'd sneaked in there for another look at. We thought it was a smashing leaving present and that particular mistress was so popular - even though I can't remember her name. Then when you got up in assembly and said would the culprit please confess, well, we knew it was only two days to the end of term and we just had to keep our heads down for a little while to be in the clear. We knew you weren't going to stop all of us - the whole school - going on our summer vac, just to find out.'
'But I never needed to find out. I always knew. I just looked around at assembly and the guilt was written on your faces large as life. I just hoped that I had taught you enough self-respect to own up and take your punishment. I felt bitterly disappointed in you.'
Selina, who had gaped at the news, now shivered theatricality. ‘No fear’ she said, tossing her fine blonde hair. 'I had had quite enough experience of being walloped by you when you strapped Betty Trask and me that time for smoking. I didn't want any more. Especially as it was a caning job this time, we were all sure of that. I’d heard quite enough about your skill at wielding a cane.
Miss Felton. I was only too glad not to have to find out at first hand. Funnily. sometimes I find myself feeling almost wistful about that. Sort of wishing I'd had the moral fibre to own up and take what was coming to me and that you might have respected me for that. Now I learn you've known all along. How you must have despised the pair of us! You know who the other girl was don't you?’
‘Yes. I do: Betty Trask.'
Selina sighed, ‘That’s right. But tell me: if you knew, why didn't you cane us anyway.
Miss Felton shook her grey locks and tutted. 'Can't you answer that question for yourself. After all I tried to teach you’
Selina raised her glass and took a deep swallow to cover her confusion. She was definitely feeling a little less tight. ‘Not unless you wouldn’t punish us without proof. That you’d feel that wasn’t fair according to what you always used to tell us? That is there was evidence or we got caught red-handed, then we'd been stupid and deserved a thrashing. That owning up to something we could have got away with would be, I don't know, sort of character building!'
Miss Felton looked at her with what Selina could swear was warmth and affection.
'All these years.' she said. 'And I thought that I had failed with you. But it did sink in, didn't it? You did, ah, as you young people say, "get the message", didn't you! A pity that you don't seem to have put it into practice.'
Selina gasped: her hands, with their perfectly manicured and polished nails, flew to her face and her cheeks were suffused with a blush. ‘Why. What on earth do you mean?’
It was the older woman's turn to shrug her shoulders in their greenish tweeds. 'Look at your life' she said softly 'You've made a mess of your marriage to the extent that your husband is thinking, quite rightly in my opinion of turning you out. Maybe if he’d taken his belt to you you’d have been a better wife. You've got everything you want and yet you aren't content. All because you lack the ability to take the more difficult option. You drift in whatever direction is easiest. No wonder you're not happy.'
Selina's eyes blurred with tears and she lowered her head. ‘That's not fair.' she said. 'It’s not true' Deep in her heart, though, she knew she had heard the truth. She did lack the ability to take the harder option: it was a lesson she had never learned.
‘Besides.' she said ' It wasn't just me, I couldn't confess without dropping Betty in it. She's just as guilty as I am. Why should I take all the blame'
Miss Felton stroked her hand reassuringly. 'You don't my dear.' she said. 'Betty has fully admitted her part in it. A couple of years ago. She came to see me, just like you did. She was in a very similar situation. She, too recognised her failing, all those years ago. But she faced up to it and she felt much better when she'd settled her account. She writes to me regularly. She's blissfully happy with her husband now and wishes she had realised that she needed to do years earlier'
Selina raised her eyes, now filled with tears. ‘What do you mean "settled her account" she asked.
Miss Felton primmed her lips. 'What do you think?' she asked. She just took her medicine - the way she should have done when she was a schoolgirl. Got it all off her chest. The relief she said was enormous and well worth the sting.
'D-d do you mean' stammered Selina. ‘B-b-but how! I mean wh...wh...what?’
'My dear I still keep a locker over at the old school even though there is little that I do there now. Sentiment, if you like. There are still a few souvenirs of my days as headmistress. I was able to ferret out a cane without a lot of difficulty and Betty gritted her teeth and took her medicine’
‘But she's a grown woman. She must have been! I mean she couldn't just bend over for a caning, could she?'
'Of course she could. And did. It did her the world of good to bare her backside for a good dose of the stick’.
‘But- but where? How? Selina could scarcely take it in. No one who knew her now had ever seen her like this.
'Why, across at the college of course! I have always had keys. After nine o'clock the place is completely empty. We had absolute privacy. A half-an-hour and it was all over. Like a weight lifted from her shoulders, she said. Now, my dear, I think I will have one last sherry. I think you have had quite enough. Why don't you go and powder your nose? Your mascara is a little streaked.' So saying, she rose and went to the bar.
Dizzily, Selina clambered to her feet and wended her way to the ladies. A few minutes later, when she emerged, Miss Felton was sitting, engrossed in the evening paper. Selina stood at the bar, ordered a double and drank it at a gulp. Then she walked with a determined stride across to her old Headmistress' table stopping beside it but not sitting down.
'Miss Felton: she said. 'Do you still have keys to the college? It's gone nine o’clock. hasn't it?'
* * *
The lights flashed on and filled the oblong classroom with illumination. Miss Felton held the door open and closed it behind Selina, who looked around the room and gave a slight shiver as she heard the key grind in the lock. Miss Felton crossed to the Formica table and placed upon it her bag, a long garment of black cloth and a slender beige-coloured object nearly three feet in length and slightly curved, with a complete semicircle twist at one end. Selina hugged her shoulders, looking around the room, her breath coming faster now. Her gaze came to rest on the black windows with the branches of the evergreen waving outside.
'Please’ she said. 'Could we have the blinds drawn?'
Miss Felton obligingly complied then went to the table and shook out the long black academic gown and shrugged her way into it.
'I'm glad you had that here’ murmured Selina. 'It makes it seem more, more sort of official, somehow.'
'Quite so, my dear: replied Miss Felton smoothly. She took a chair from behind one of the desks and placed it in the clear space in front of the rows and facing them. She then picked up the rattan cane and flexed its springy length between both hands.
Selina spoke, her voice coming out at first in a nervous squeak. Her knees had turned to jelly.
'Uhh, Miss Felton, umm, er’
'Yes, my dear?'
'Urn, I was wondering, so I can prepare myself, er: how many?'
Miss Felton pursed her lips, 'Well now. I should have given you six at the time, so what do you think would be fair?"
Selina gulped. 'Welt, I was thinking: suppose six for the original thing and, er, six more for dodging. And so I'll remember. What do you think? Would that be alright? She glanced anxiously at the older woman, sensing that it would be unacceptable to propose less. And she had to find a sufficient antidote to her own cloud of guilt.
'Yes my dear, I think that that would be fair. But they will be hard strokes, and on the bare, of course. I always cane on the bare. And remember to thank me after every stroke, like all you girls were taught., Now, shall we get on? If you just come here and position yourself over this chair. I'm sure I don’t need to tell you how’.
Selina’s high heels tapped hesitantly on the floorboards as she approached. She gestured down at her full swinging skirt ‘Er... shall I, er'
‘If you'll just bend over, my dear. I'll arrange you how I want you’.
Selina stood ~behind the chair and leaned forward grasping the seat of the chair with both hands, bending straight from the waist.
'Right down, please Selina. Head well down now, bottom sticking up.'
Selina complied and suddenly felt the hem of her skirt lifted and laid across the small of her back. A slight chill seemed to flow over her bottom.
‘Ah good, my dear. I'm glad to see that you eschew tights – unhygienic as well as unsightly things. Now, let’s have these down and we can get to work.'
Selina was wearing skimpy nylon lace knickers in a shade of coffee. Her suspender belt matched and was also trimmed with lace and held up sheer tan stockings with stretched, glossy welts.
As her stunning bottom was revealed, perfect and flawless and fully rounded, complete with matching dimples, a tremor went through it. The panties ended in a scrap of tangled cloth just
below her stocking tops. She took a deep breath. Her bottom felt fragile and vulnerable.
'Place your ankles together. Now lower your tummy onto the chair ...that's right.. Now stretch your legs out straight. Now. I'm sure I don't have to tell you not to put your hands in the way, do I?
Or not to attempt to stand up before I have finished. If we are going to do this, after all this time, let us do it right. If you misbehave during your beating you will get extra strokes. Now, I want you to count each stroke after it lands. After that I will deliver the next, After twelve, you may stand. Are you ready?'
•Yes. Miss: Oh, the comfort of falling back into that former diction.
Miss Felton tapped the very centre of Salina’s pale and perfect bottom with the cane, just to show where the stroke was aimed and then drew the rattan back. There was a pause, then Selina heard the cane hiss through the air.
Swish!
‘Owwwww! Uhh, I'm sorry Miss. One, Miss, thank you Miss’ A thin red stripe now bisected Salina’s twin cheeks.
‘That is alright, Selina. I don't expect you to hold completely still, or to keep silent. Next one coming up.'
Swish! It was really loud.
‘Two, thank you Miss’ Selina shifted her feet and clenched her hands on the seat A second red stripe had appeared beside the first, where her bottom was slightly fuller.
Swish! No holding back at all!
'Eeek. Oooh! Oh, sorry. Miss. Three, thank you’ Selina moaned.
Ducking her head, which had involuntarily bobbed up, down again. Selina awaited the next stroke.
Swish! It cut the air.
'Ahhh! Oh, um, four, thank you Miss’ Selina gritted her teeth. The blonde hair hung over her eyes and her skirts were awry, The tiny knickers had worked their way down to mid-thigh. There were three double edged stroke marks visible below the original one. This time the wicked cane tapped above the earlier strokes.
Swish! The sound seemed to rip the very fibre of the air.
'Eeeow! Oh Miss! It stings! ... Five, thank you’ she quaked.
Swish!
'Six' Owww! Oooh, halfway, Miss!'
Swish, whack!
'Oooooh! Oooh Miss. Please! A moment! Uhhh. seven. Thank you’ The pain was now atrocious – searing into her bottom.
‘Sorry, Miss’.
Miss Felton shifted her stance and the cane rose once more aiming higher.
Swish!
'Owwwww! Oh Miss, please, lower! Where I'm plumper, please.. Miss Felton! Eight, thank you Miss’
Swish, whack!
'AAARRGH!' For the first time, a stroke half crossed an existing one, Selina half rose, her knuckles white, before controlling herself in dread of being awarded extra strokes. Her panties slipped further down her legs as her feet rattled on the floorboards. She gave an audible sob and it was moments before she could give the count. Relentlessly, the cane rose and fell once more.
Swish! Similarly ear-splitting.
'Ooooh! Ten. Thank you Miss!' This time the stroke again struck the lower slopes of Salina’s striped and burning behind. There was now just enough space to skilfully fit two strokes onto the unmarked space which the very lowest curving underside of her bottom. Miss Felton raised the cane.
Swish!
‘Uhhh!’ It was a strangled sound, and Selina jerked and tossed her head. Her knickers now slipped entirely down and entangled around her twitching ankles and the straps of her shoes. Her hips wriggled and jerked on the chair back, Miss Felton waited.
'Ooh! Ahh! Sorry, Miss. Eleven, thank you Miss.'
'Last one Selina. Well done, you've taken this well. You may stand after this one.' The cane went aloft for the last time, paused and then flashed down.
Swish!'
'Aargh! Oh Miss! Oh, that was so extra hard! Oh. Twelve, thank you Miss' Selina croaked, remembering the ritual appreciation for her punishment that she had been forced to show. She sprang to her feet, her hands flying to her well-caned rear, massaging the tender stripes that adorned it. She stood. Her knees pumping, her skirt still up and her panties in a puddle around her feet. The older woman gave her a contemptuous glance, put down her cane and shrugged out of her gown. She then sat down for the few minutes required for Selina to get her breath and her composure back, craning over her shoulder to see the damage the cane had wrought. At length, Miss Felton took out mirror and showed her. Selina gasped when she saw the vivid stripes.
‘Ohh Miss! You did lay it on, didn't you?'
‘Well, l think you'll agree you deserved it, didn't you! And you feel better, don't you. for having faced up to things?’
Slowly, Selina agreed that she did.
'The only trouble is, I’m afraid you'll have those marks for at least a week. I know you're staying in town tonight, but what will your husband think. when you get home? What will you tell him ?"
Selina stood, her skirt and slip still hoicked around her waist. Her long legs sheer in nylon, her bottom red-lined and sore and her knickers at her feet.
‘I shall tell him the truth’ she said proudly, with a fresh and direct enthusiasm 'I'm through with fibs and evasion and soft options. And I shall ask him if we can try all over again. And I shall tell him that if he thinks I’m getting out of order in future he should buy a cane or a strap and thrash my bare bottom like you’ve just done.’
Selina tossed her head proudly in a new-found freedom and pulled up her panties over her burning rear end. Miss Felton smiled privately to herself: after all these years, she had completed her job.

The Dinner Party

An epic tale but well worth the length. Jane deserves everything she gets and the wonderful fact that the maid 'is no stranger to corporal punishment' makes the whole thing so very poignant.The tawseing from the 'other woman' is well-described and the stolen lingerie adds a nice touch.

Jane stood in front of the full-length bedroom mirror, her bathrobe hanging open. Slipping first one shoulder off, then the other, she tossed it on the bed. She studied her reflection in the glass and was pleased with what she saw. Tallish and beautifully proportioned Jane was proud of her figure and rightly so - long slender legs with thighs just swelling enough to make them shapely and erotic, and above them surprisingly broad and curvaceous hips narrowed to a slim waist. Higher again, well-formed breasts were firmly thrust out bouncing provocatively at the slightest movement. The warm bath had left her skin a glowing pink with the fragrance of the bath-oils radiating around her, the nipples on her breasts glistening and erect after the towelling. It was a juncture at which Jane very often paused for sensuous self-examination - an exercise in pure vanity.
She half turned looking over her shoulder as her lovely bottom came into view. The bottom like the hips was generously broad and well-cushioned without being in any way flabby, the cheeks firm and delightfully rounded: a truly feminine bottom, every bit as shapely as one could hope for on a modem miss of 24 years of age.
The adorable body reflected in the mirror simply cried out to be fondled and caressed but whilst Jane was only too anxious for such attentions she was quite determined that her fiancé Gerald would not see all this naked loveliness before their wedding night. It was not that she had scruples of a moral nature, just that she had heard of men having second thoughts about marriage after they had obtained what they wanted. She had no intention of that happening to her.
Jane was an ambitious, self-centred and avaricious young lady with two main aims in life: firstly, to marry a respectable member of the community well enough off to provide for her properly, and secondly, to advance her career to a solid position with a good income of her own. Marrying Gerald, a rising young Solicitor would achieve the first aim, but this evening it was the second ambition that filled her thoughts. She had been invited to a Dinner Party at the home of Mr Hall, her employer at which she had been told other members of the Hall family would also be present.
Halls Ltd was the largest department store in the local town and for nearly a year Jane had been sales supervisor of the Lingerie Department, a position of considerable prestige for someone of her age but she enjoyed the responsibility and worked hard to make the department successful.
However, since the staff Christmas Dance two months earlier she had begun to have even grander ideas. Mr Hall senior, to whose party she was going, was Chairman of the firm, and his elder son, Lionel the Managing Director. At the staff dance Lionel had monopolised Jane, flirting with her in a manner that had enraged his wife, Muriel. That evening and several times since he had hinted to Jane that if she played her cards right she might be promoted to buyer for the department. The way he said and his obvious infatuation with her made the inference plain.
Was it Mr Lionel’s doing, she wondered, that she had been invited this evening on her own - without Gerald? Perhaps Lionel would offer her a lift home, she wondered as she put on apricot coloured bra and panties, gorgeous lace-trimmed garments in satin and pure silk. The fact that she had 'acquired' these expensive undies from the store's stock room did not worry her in the slightest. After all, everyone had perks, and being in charge of the department surely, she was entitled to sample the wares occasionally in order to familiarise herself with the products.
A sudden thought struck her. Suppose Mr Lionel did give her a lift home and she invited him in - perhaps he might see the undies. He would recognise them as one of their lines. Well so what? She thought, smiling to herself ... if he gets that far it won't matter, his only interest would be in trying to remove them. Anyway she had no intention of allowing such liberties. Not unless he made a very definite offer of the Buyer's post - in which case, who knows…she might allow a little fondling, just enough to let him know the delights that might be available once the appointment was confirmed. Provided it was going to advance her career and be kept secret from Gerald, a discreet little affair with Lionel might well be worthwhile.
Jane carefully eased a long turquoise dress over her head and smoothed it down over her hips. Not from Halls Ltd, this – but an expensive purchase on a recent visit to London it fitted perfectly and she thought it gave her an elegant, almost aristocratic look that would be just right for the occasion.
When she arrived at Mr Halls residence, a large detached house in an exclusive part of town, the door was opened by the maid, Carrie, a pleasant young girl who came to the store occasionally on errands. ‘Ooh, I do like your dress, Miss Forsyth' she said after helping her off with her coat. 'The others are in the drawing room this way please.'
As she entered the room Mr Hall came towards her. 'Ah, there you are Jane m'dear. Come in, come in. Carrie will get you a drink I think you' know everyone.' Jane accepted a gin and tonic from Carrie and joined in the light conversation.
After a little while Mr Hall beckoned to her: 'Jane, before we have our meal there is something I want you to see in the library, it will only take a few minutes,' and so saying he led the way nodding to Lionel who joined them. Crossing the hall they entered a room lined with bookshelves. In the centre stood a television set connected to a video recorder .
‘Now Jane.' said Mr Hall fitting a cassette into the machine 'you know we have closed circuit TV at the store for security and I want to show you some clips from recent footage.' He switched on and a view of the stock room appeared on the screen. A figure entered which Jane recognised as herself and felt a chill run down her spine. The figure glanced out and round the door before shutting it and then lifted three pairs of nylons and a slip all of which she quickly stuffed into her handbag and left the room. The picture went blank for a moment and then a similar scene was played out with Jane again dearly recognisable, this time cramming three pairs of exotic little knickers into her bag. A third and final dip showed Jane helping herself to the very same apricot bra, knicker and suspender set she was wearing that evening.
Mr Hall switched off the set. 'Well Jane, we have just witnessed three thefts all within the last fortnight. What you may have taken before that stock room camera was secretly added to our system is anybody's guess. You are aware that it is the store's policy always to prosecute in cases of theft - indeed our insurers insist on it. So, what have you to say before we call the Police?'
Jane's mouth felt dry and she knew her cheeks were scarlet. A heavily oppressive sense of shame intensified her shock, her fear and her trembling. Her mind raced. What would everyone think!
Her elderly parents, so proud of their 'career girl' daughter - it would break their hearts. And Gerald? Being an ambitious young solicitor he would drop her like a hot potato. Suddenly she was so frightened she acted right out of character, Jane Forsyth started to whine and plead! 'No. please Mr, Hall not the Police, I beg you let me pay for everything I have taken. I will never do it again - I promise - please.' Jane was near to tears. She could not control her reactions.
'If we do show this to the Police, Jane we must also of course sentence you to instant dismissal and that is the only thing that makes us hesitate. Up until now we have been very happy with your work and you have increased the profits of your Department. It would therefore suit us to keep you on but you must be punished in a manner that will deter you from any repeats. Everyone here tonight is either a Director or Shareholder in the firm and has therefore suffered to some extent by your stealing. So it is only fitting they should share in punishing you. If you accept punishment from us all- and I mean corporal punishment - having your bottom spanked knickers down, and being strapped and caned as well during the evening - if you will accept this willingly, obeying our instructions without question - we will consider such chastisement as sufficient retribution and that will be the end of the matter. So what is it to be: Police court, dismissal and disgrace ... or a discreet disciplining at this private dinner-party?'
Jane, her mind in a whirl at the turn of events, knew there could only be one answer. 'I will accept your punishment - l'll do whatever you want as long as I can keep my job. and Gerald and my parents don't hear about it,' she said at once.
'No one will hear about it, my dear,' Mr Hall assured her. 'Now let us go back to the drawing-room for one more drink before we eat.'
'Do - do the others know about - about my being punished’
asked Jane nervously as they left the library. 'Of course, Jane' replied Mr Hall 'and they are all looking forward to it. You will provide the entertainment for the evening – the cabaret. We knew you would accept our offer. Going home with a sore bottom is better than losing your job, your good name, and probably your fiancé, is it not?’
'I suppose so, mumbled Jane as they re-entered the drawing room and she thankfully accepted another gin.
‘I’m going to need this’ she thought to herself.
She looked around this little social gathering; they were all so beautifully dressed, sophisticated, the whole atmosphere so civilised and respectable – it seemed unbelievable that they intended her to bare her bottom in front of them, and as Mr Hall had put it, administer 'corporal punishment'. Her nerves rippled as she recalled the frightening phrase. In addition to Lionel and Muriel, Mr Hall's younger son, Tony, and his wife Laura, completed the party. Tony, also a Director, was only 23 and with Laura just 21 they were both younger than Jane, a fact which somehow added to her embarrassment.
She realised Lionel had sidled up to her, smiling slightly. ‘So, Jane, you’ve landed yourself in a spot of bother now, haven’t you?’
‘Mr Lionel, do they really mean to spank me and cane me, or are they having me on, giving me a scare sort of thing’
'No Jane. they are not having you on. They, or I should say we, because I'm included you know. We are going to teach you that dishonesty doesn’t pay, and it is your bottom that is going to learn the lesson. Don't worry, it won't be too bad, it's all a bit of a game really’
I wonder, thought Jane as she spotted Lionel’s wife, Muriel looking daggers at them across the room. She had enjoyed playing up to Lionel at the office party and watching Muriel become more and more jealous. It didn't seem to matter then that she had made an enemy of Muriel but now she realised that perhaps it was going to matter with Muriel a position to make her pay for her indiscretion.
Carrie appeared in the doorway. 'Excuse me Mr Hall. Dinner is served'
'Thank you, Carrie. Come along everybody’ said Mr Hall taking Jane's arm and leading the way through to the dining-room where an oval table was set for six. 'You will sit at the far end Jane, opposite me with the others round the sides'
Before she sat down Muriel whispered something in Mr Hall’s ear. He hesitated a moment before speaking and then said, 'Muriel has just voiced the opinion that under that beautiful dress, Jane, you are probably wearing some lingerie stolen from our store. To satisfy her curiosity could you please stand up on your chair and raise your dress so that we can have a look?’
'No, really’ stammered Jane. 'it's absurd'
'At once, if you please,' commanded Mr Hall sternly. 'Remember our agreement is that you obey all instructions without question'
Blushing, Jane stepped onto the chair and lifted the hem of her dress up to her waist. 'there - what did I tell you? – that’s the undie set the video shows her taking.' exclaimed Muriel triumphantly.
'Yes’ said Tony, 'lace-trimmed pure silk in Apricot Blush - our newest colour.'
'Lower your dress Jane: said Mr Hall 'and before you sit down kindly remove those knickers.’
Jane, still blushing, reached underneath her dress and pulled down the offending panties. 'Place them in the centre of the table’ continued Mr Hall. ‘While we are eating they will remind us of your dishonesty, and also the fact that your bottom is bare beneath your dress awaiting our attention’.
Melon was served as a starter, and as she ate it Jane was aware of the others glancing at the knickers on the table. smiling at each other as they did so. After they finished Carrie moved round collecting the plates, returning them to the sideboard.
Mr Hall tapped the table 'Now Miss Forsyth' (the use of her surname sounded very formal) 'it is time for the first stage of your punishment and as the senior member of the firm I will deliver it myself. Having been a very naughty girl you deserve to have your bottom spanked. But in order to let you warm up gently I’ll let you have some protection so please put those knickers back on’ Jane took the brief knickers from the table and pulled them back over pert bottom. Mr Hall moved his chair a yard or two back from the table.
'Come and stand here - now lift your dress up above your waist.'
Jane, knowing it was quite useless to protest, resigned herself to whatever ignominy lay ahead and bent forward grasping the dress hem on either side. Slowly the turquoise dress rose up revealing as it did so lovely long legs clad in the sheerest of nylon. Up past the knees it went until above mid-thigh the thicker, darker welt of suspendered stocking-tops appeared, and with erotic suddenness gave way to the swelling pale white flesh of delicious upper thighs. Inching ever upwards the dress was finally drawn up and over the rounded cheeks of a most luscious bottom. Her skimpy knickers tightly covered the curves but offering little in the way of real protection and they, together with the narrow suspender belt supporting the nylons seemed to emphasise her vulnerable state and provided a truly erotic image.
Mr Hall let her stand there a moment or two while he enjoyed the full frontal view of Jane standing before him with her dress held high.
She felt foolish, awkward and highly embarrassed. Not at all the prim elegance she had hoped to project at this gathering.
‘Across my knee’ ordered Mr Hall, turning his chair slightly to one side so that as Jane complied the watchers around the table could have a full view of her bottom rather than seeing it sideways on 'Come along.' he said impatiently, as Jane leant tentatively half over the waiting lap 'right over, rest your hands on the floor and spread your legs so you don't fall off- that's better: Appallingly, she had no alternative but to pull herself fully over his knees and move her legs apart as ordered.
Jane's bottom, which had been the focal point of attention from the moment it had been barred by the lifting of her dress was now realty displayed to advantage. Arched over Mr Hall's lap the pert cheeks bulged outwards shamelessly from beneath the drum-tight knickers - the cleft between them parted slightly and the young lady's body was clearly tensed and hunching with embarrassment. The whole gorgeous bottom was fully spread out - a delectable feast for the lustful eyes around the table - and in this position simply begging to be spanked.
Jane was all too aware of the exhibition she was providing. And was relieved at least that she had been so fastidious about bathing dusting and perfuming her most intimate areas. In this most indelicate situation the only comfort she could draw came from knowing that her body had been exquisitely prepared for examination, though of course the only possible person she had envisaged being so privileged was Lionel.
However, having to display her entrancing private charms was soon to be the least of her worries. She cringed slightly as Mr Hall placed his warm hand on her bottom She felt it moving across the thin nylon over her cheeks, compressing and stretching them a little as his firm hand squeezed the soft flesh. He had a really good feel all over her bum in an offhand manner almost unnoticed by the guests, before lifting his hand up and smacking it down hard on the right buttock. 'Ouch cried Jane and 'ouch!' again as Mr Hairs palm slapped down a second time on the same spot. He then gave two hard smacks on the left buttock in quick succession before holding his hand up for a moment. He then inserted his fingers in the waistband of the stolen knickers and said ‘enough protection, Jane, I want you to really feel this’ and with that he skimmed the flimsy garment down to her stocking tops enabling the onlookers to see the bright pink patches on both cheeks. Mr Hall resumed his attack and steadily spanked the upthrust bare mounds - moving his point of contact around so that the whole expanse of bulging flesh received a share of stinging slaps and the redness spread evenly over the entire bottom. As each crisply hard spank was delivered his hand seemed to bounce off the cheeks as if they were rubber. It was obvious that the flesh of Jane's backside was firm and resilient - which was just as well considering the evening ahead.
Jane continued to ooh and ouch gradually louder, and wriggled helplessly about as the spanks made her bum smart more and more. After a few further minutes of hard spanking, Mr Hal stopped. Right that will do for starters. Back to your seat - we shall have our next course before the second stage of your correction' As Jane lifted herself up from Mr Hall's knees she was dismayed to see that Carrie was still standing at the sideboard and had obviously witnessed the whole episode. That the maid had seen her bare bottom being spanked acutely added to her shame.
Jane hobbled towards her chair with her knickers still lowered to her thighs. ‘You may pull your panties’ up’, ordered Mr Hall. Jane gratefully tugged them up over her sore bottom and sat down.
Carrie was quite impassive as she served everyone with soup. The maid then brought a ruler over which she placed on top of the table. Nothing was said but Jane knew what it was: her bottom's next course. It was a traditional wooden ruler and looked as though it had come from an office. That will sting more than Mr Hall’s hand' thought Jane as she supped her soup, so nervous that she could scarcely consume even this liquid.
When it was finished and the plates removed Carrie brought a pack of cards which she handed to Jane. 'We would like you to decide the order of play,' said Mr Hall. 'Shuffle the cards and then deal them round the table - missing me. I have had my turn for the time being. The first person to receive a Jack will be the one to give you a dose of the ruler. It is a simple but amusing game.'
Jane stood up, blushing to the roots of her hair for all her sophistication and began dealing the cards out face upwards. She only got as far as Tony when a Jack appeared. Immediately Tony rose and reached for the ruler smiling at Jane. 'Come on young lady - time to show us your bum again: he guffawed and at the same time he moved his chair back away from the table. 'Now Jane, up with your dress and over my knee please - a good whacking with this ruler should help mend your ways!'
‘Er, no, I don’t think so’ interrupted Mr Hall. ‘I think we might give Jane’s fine backside a rest – the ruler is more traditionally used on the hands – and a firm beating on both hands might ensure this wicked girl never again uses her fingers for illicit purposes.’
Tony was disappointed but none the less accepted this edict and said sharply to Jane ‘Alright then, held out your left hand, palm up – arm outstretched’.
Jane grimaced but gradually did as instructed. Her hand held up for its beating. Tony picked up the ruler and without pausing just brought it down on the open palm.
The effect was devastating – Jane shrieked and drew the hand back towards her body’. Tony was unmoved. ‘Other hand, at once’ he snapped.
Jane realised that arguing would only make things worse and slowly pushed out the right hand. This time Tony tapped it a couple of times before raising the ruler and cracking it down. Again Jane squealed and withdrew the burning hand.
‘Just two more’ Said Mr Hall ‘Jane’s got a lot to take this evening and that ruler seems to be biting hard’
So each hand took one more stroke and Jane gratefully sat down – her bottom still stung but it was as nothing to the throbbing pain in her hands. She’d never imagined a short ruler could inflict such agony.
After serving the fish course, Carrie quietly laid a strap on the centre of the table. Jane viewed it with considerable apprehension. It was a typical school tawse, dark brown leather, about two feet long with the last ten inches split down the middle to form two tails.
The grilled sole was delicious but Jane could only toy with it - the sight of the evil-looking strap in front of her had quite taken away her appetite. Eventually, but too soon for Jane, the others finished and after clearing away the places Carrie again brought the card for Jane to deal. This time they went round twice before Muriel received the required Jack.
'Aren't you the lucky one!’ quipped Tony
'Not really: replied Muriel 'I was hoping to use the cane - but not to worry, I'll do the best I can with the strap’
I'll bet you will, thought Jane with a feeling of dread. Aware of how much Muriel disliked her.
'Right, Miss Forsyth.' said Muriel getting to her feet, 'where shall we have you positioned? I know - push your chair back a couple of yards and reverse it. You can bend over the back and take hold of the seat. That should prop your bum up nicety.' Jane rose and positioned the chair as instructed. It was no longer necessary to tell her to raise her dress: she knew what was expected and dutifully hoisted it •up waist high before leaning over the chair and grasping the front of the seat. The chair back was high enough to make her stretch her legs straight and taut. Particularly when she moved her feet further apart which she did of her own volition to avoid the chagrin of being ordered to by Muriel. Muriel however, far from being impressed by Jane's submissive gesture was determined to impose the maximum indignity on this scheming young woman 'Don't you think it would be better to have the dress off altogether?' she remarked to her father• in-law .'It's becoming creased with all the bunching up’
'Yes...why not!' said Mr Hall secretly rather pleased at the suggestion 'We really should find out whether you are wearing any further items of stolen underwear, Jane and as Muriel says, it is a shame to crumple up that lovely dress. So off with it please – Carrie can lay it out in another room.'
Jane who had straightened up during this discussion looked daggers at Muriel before reluctantly pulling down the zip at the side of the dress and then hoisting it over her head and off. Carrie came forward to take it from her, leaving Jane beside the chair clad only in knickers, stockings, suspender belt and most noticeably, a silk and satin apricot bra. They all knew where that had come from.
Jane stood uncomfortably, blushed scarlet and hoped against hope that they wouldn't want her to ... But it was a vain hope.
Muriel was already speaking: 'Well well more of our property, Jane. You can't be allowed to wear a stolen bra while you are being disciplined. Put it on the table.'
Jane looked pleadingly at Mr Hall but there was no help there.
The breasts cupped in the exotic bra were obviously well- formed and the prospect of seeing them fully revealed was stiffening more than his resolve. 'Do as Muriel says he murmured a little huskily.’ You agreed to obey all our instructions’.
Slowly, Jane put her hands behind her, unclasped the bra and with a look of helpless dismay drew it away from her breasts. (They were certainly worth seeing - perfectly shaped and thrusting out firmly.) Quickly and self-consciously she moved across to place the bra on the table.
‘And the knickers’ snapped Muriel ‘I’m not going to waste my efforts – I want you to feel this. ‘Come on, take those panties down now’.
Jane put her fingers in the waistband of the tight little apricot knickers and peeled them down, stepped out of them and put them with the bra on the table. Her stunning bottom revealed for all to admire. She then returned to stand beside the reversed chair turning her back to the audience to hide her frontal nudity. But nothing could protect her from the acute feeling of humiliation.
‘Right, Jane' said Muriel in the same catty, cutting tone. Dangling the tawse purposefully. 'Get back over the chair - now that you have bared your arse and titties like a tatty stripper we'll proceed with strapping your bottom.' And now clearly a certain voluptuous malicious relish could also be heard in her voice.
Having bent over the high chair, Jane reached forward to grasp the seat and again spread her legs slightly. This opened and broadened the shapely posterior which was once more perfectly displayed for all to see – the cheeks still with a warm red glow from the effects of the recent hand-spanking.
Muriel moved alongside, putting her hand out and sharply slapping the bottom flesh severa1 times. ‘Ouch!' said Jane as the bony fingers bit into her bum.
'Is that hurting you! - you hussy’ Muriel hissed in Jane's ear.
'Wait till I start with the strap - I'll teach you not to make eyes at my husband. This house has in its own grounds so you can cry out as much as you like and I want to hear you yell so I know I’m getting my message through to you.'
Jane gritted her teeth and wished she would get on with it. Bent over with her bottom obscenely stuck out waiting for the strap was unnerving, but Muriel was determined to savour the moment. Mr Hall could feel the tension; he, like the others knew Muriel had a score to settle - and what better than an upturned bottom at the mercy of a supple leather tawse? It was superb poetic justice.
Carefully Muriel measured her swing and then brought the strap round and down across the crown of the waiting bum 'Aooh!' cried Jane as her bottom jerked violently. A few seconds' pause and the twin tails of the strap again landed on the centre of the shapely bum with a loud thwack. 'Ooooh cried Jane loudly and "Oooh, oooh even more loudly as a third stroke lashed down. The hand spanking had stung painfully, but the strap was far worse and really scorched Jane's bottom The desire to jump up and clasp her still stinging hands to her bum was very strong but so was her determination not to give Muriel the satisfaction of breaking her. Sheer will-power enabled her to keep a tight hold of the chair seat but could not prevent her bottom from bouncing and twisting about as the strap continued to rise and fall. The buttock cheeks repeatedly opened and tightened in spasmodic jerks as they absorbed the shock waves.
Nor could she help crying out every time the strap landed – each stroke intensifying the pain and making her weep freely between strokes some of which lashed perilously close to her most sensitive spot.
Jane's bottom, red to begin with, was now bright scarlet with blotches in places, but Muriel continued her relentless strapping of the squirming, defenceless bum for some time before pausing for a rest. Jane remained bent over the chair back sobbing quietly and writhing continuously.
Muriel stood back for a few moments, obviously deriving great pleasure from the sight of the soundly strapped bum still heaving and writhing about with the cheeks constantly opening and shutting. There was a breathless silence in the room for somehow it was so poignant seeing this happening to a full-grown and beautiful young woman. Jane's discomfort was plain to see and there was no doubt she was now the possessor of a very sore bottom indeed.
And thought Muriel to herself I’ll make it even sorer to ensure she really remembers the message.
She raised the strap once more and thwacked it downwards.'
The outstretched bum jerked violently and Jane gave a sharp cry at this renewal of the assault. A second stoke and Jane yelped again. As Muriel drew back the strap the watchers could see she was aiming lower and sure enough the tawse landed swift and hard across the skin fold between upper thigh and lower bottom. Jane gave a loud yell and although she kept hold of the chair seat her ankles kicked back one after the other as the effect of the stroke on this sensitive area bit into her. She writhed and wriggled while Muriel drew back the strap and after a pause delivered an even lower and more painful blow. This avoided the twisting bum altogether and lashed across the backs of the lovely milky-white thighs just above-the stocking tops. It was too much for Jane who with a screech of pain jumped upright clasping her hands to her whipped thighs and squeezed the flesh with all her might until the intense pain eased a little. 'Ouch. aach. aah No more.. please, no more she looked beseechingly at Mr Hall.
'Yes I think that is enough Muriel’ he said 'and don't look so upset. You have given Jane a first class strapping, but the agreement was that we would punish her bottom not her legs - so I hope everybody will remember that from now on.
'Sit down Jane - if you can.! - and we'll continue our meal’
Jane, bringing her chair with her, moved somewhat stiffly back to her place and even these few slow steps caused her breasts to bob and bounce delightfully. Very gently she lowered her burning cheeks onto the leather seat. It was cooling at first but soon there was a tacky sticky feeling at every movement constantly reminding her that her bum was bare and her knickers were on the table for all to see. This might have been quite a sensual experience, she thought if only her bottom wasn't hurting so much. And evidently this smarting fury was not the kind of pain that would disappear in a hurry.
While Came served the main course, roast pheasant, the others were able to enjoy a close look at Jane's shapely breasts. Any illusion of dignity melted clean away under their proprietorial stares. After the maid finished serving she reached for something under the sideboard, and with her usual smile at Jane placed a cane on top of the bra and knickers on the table.
Jane's heart sank as she saw it dose up: a long yellowish rattan cane with a curved handle like a very thin walking stick. Strong, resilient but flexible and, thought the poor girl, specifically designed and made for punishing naughty bottoms. A wave of panic came over her. The severity of the strapping left her bottom so burning and tender that the thought of the cane on top tempted her to give up and insist on leaving. Alas she realised the consequences – prosecution, disgrace and the ruining of her life were even more unthinkable. No, however much they humiliated her and no matter how hard and how many times they wished to flog her she knew she must endure it somehow. This evening her bottom was at their disposal to do with as they pleased and she could do absolutely nothing about it.
Jane gave a quiet sob and again could only toy with the dish in front of her. She could not swallow. Her nudity made her feel more vulnerable than ever with so many eyes staring at her.
When everyone was finished and the plates removed the cards were produced with now only Lionel and Laura in contention. The first Jack fell to Lionel so it was he who rose and picked up the cane.
'Come Jane’ he said not unkindly 'the sooner we start the sooner it will be over'. If you could stand across there and bend over that should do nicely’
Jane, still with a despairing look on her face, moved to the indicated spot and turning her back, bent right over almost touching her toes in the traditional school girl position.
'No, not quite so much’ said Lionel seeing how tight and hard the bum-cheeks were stretched over her hip bones. 'Try putting your hands on your knees’ As Jane straightened up the cheeks relaxed and became rounder and more cushioned. 'That's better’ Lionel said, his hand briefly exploring Jane's outstretched bottom and feeling its warmth and he gently slapped it. He stepped to one side and carefully measured the cane against the rounded cheeks. Back it went slowly before being brought whipping down to hit the naked flesh.
‘Aahh!' gasped Jane whilst her red bottom cheeks gave a little jerk acknowledging the stinging kiss or the rod. A second stroke brought a similar response.
Although both strokes hurt, landing as they did on an already very sore bottom Jane was aware that they were not as agonising as could have been expected. Lionel was undoubtedly refraining from using maximum force. He appeared to take a full swing but must be holding back a little just before contact. Even in the midst of her punishment Jane felt graceful but realised it might be wise to assist in the deception. So when the third stroke landed she gave a louder cry and jerked her bottom sharply.
From then on she continued yell out at each stroke and wriggled her bum about as though the caning was extremely painful. If the onlookers were being fooled by this performance they were at least being treated to the sight of Jane's bottom executing a most voluptuous and revealing dance for their entertainment.
When Lionel paused he too found the sight of the wriggling bum attractive viewing. He suddenly felt a desire to give it a good hard hiding and see it jump in earnest. After all he told himself, Jane had stolen from them so he should not be too light on her, and the shapely bottom wriggling deliciously in front of him was most provocative to someone holding a whippy cane.
With rising excitement Lionel again measured the cane against the heaving bum, drew it well back and delivered it hard and true.
Thwack
'Oowwh!' Jane's yell was quite genuine this time. Her bottom jerking violently as the pain seared through it. This was how she had imagined that awesome cane would feel - quite agonising. It struck again with similar force and Jane felt her whole body quivering as her bum absorbed the stinging cut.
Lionel would have liked to continue but decided not to jeopardize his chance of future favours from the delectable Jane. This had been a strong motive in his earlier holding back. 'There, that will do’ he said 'and I hope it has taught you a good lesson.
Jane straightened up and returned thankfully to her chair wincing as she lowered her sore bum onto the leather seat. Even with the last two stingers, she knew Lionel had let her off lightly and she was glad her encounter with the cane had been at his hand and not Muriel’s.
However her relief vas short lived. Once the dessert course was served, a delightful sherry trifle, Carrie again reached underneath the sideboard and to Jane's dismay produced a birch. This she placed in the middle of the table, smiling sweetly at the naked girl on whom it was obviously soon to be used.
Jane shivered, partly from having no clothes on, but mostly with apprehension as she surveyed the birch. It looked frightening - a full thirty inches long and made up six or seven thin supple branch lengths tightly bound at the bottom to provide a good hand grip and blossoming out to a tightly packed twiggy fullness of about four inches diameter at the business end - the part, that is, that would be applied to her posterior.
'A worthy instrument for disciplining a wrongdoer, wouldn't you say Jane?' remarked Mr Hall, as though reading her mind 'Carrie and I collected the branches from the garden yesterday and spent some time grading and matching them to make it just right’ At this point the maid flashed Jane a fetching smile. 'We steeped it in brine overnight to keep it supple and ensure none of the twigs snap or crack off. The soaking has also made it heavier, so it should do a good job’
'No need to cry yet. Jane.' he added seeing her begin to weep again.' Actually you have been rather lucky in selecting people for your different lessons. By simple elimination it falls to Laura to birch you and she is such a gentle young thing I hardly think you will suffer too much. Nevertheless we must find a way of presenting you for this punishment that is worthy of our fine birch.' He looked around the room. 'I know - may we borrow your serving trolley Carrie! Would you clear it and bring it out here please.'
Carrie removed the remaining plates from the trolley and wheeled it out near the dinner table. 'Yes, sideways on’ said Mr Hall 'Come on Jane, over the trolley please. It will support your bottom at just the right height.'
Reluctantly, wishing that the floor would open up to swallow her, Jane clambered across the trolley. As she did so it moved about alarmingly on its four wheels but by placing her feet apart and pulling herself further over so that her hands reached the floor on the opposite side she was able to keep it stationary. However this was only achieved at the expense of modesty. Jane’s spread-eagled position over the trolley presented a lewd display, the bulging bottom cheeks and upper thighs forced outwards and once again she was grateful that her posture concealed her suddenly flushing face.
While most of the onlookers were enjoying this stark exhibition of Jane’s anatomy, Laura had taken hold of the birch and was having some practice swings through the air. Jane screwed her head round to watch and felt chagrined that her tormentor this time was to be a girl younger than herself. Laura moved nearer and positioned the birch gently over Jane's bottom stretched out so openly across the trolley. She felt a pang of real pity when she saw at close quarters how bruised and blotched the shapely bum had become. The whole wide fleshy expanse was deeply purply red with twin ridged weals showing where the two last savage strokes of Lionel’s cane had landed. What on earth is a birching going to feel like on top of this lot! thought Laura but Mr Hall was nodding to her to begin so steeling herself to the task she raised her arm well up and swiped the birch down across the outstretched bum. It landed with a loud Thwacksh! echoed by a drawn-out ‘ahhh’ from Jane as her bottom gave a sharp jerk and started twitching violently.
To her surprise Laura found that this reaction to what had been a rather casual first stroke gave her quite a thrill. Her sympathy of a few minutes earlier was overtaken by a feeling of power at the realisation that the ambitious Miss Forsyth , stretched naked across the trolley, was so much at her mercy. Her natural feminine bitchiness - which found no expression in her everyday personality, suddenly had an appropriate target. The upturned bottom was already acknowledging the effectiveness of the birch and the prospect of making it really dance excited the younger girl. The fact that this would involve more pain for the humiliated Jane no longer worried her.
Shifting her stance s1ightly Laura aimed her next stroke at the fleshy lower half of Jane's bum and was rewarded after the satisfying whistling hiss by seeing the curvy cheeks contract and expand in convulsive movement. Jane gasped loudly and could be heard giving a few sobs. She knew now why a birch was considered so effective an instrument of punishment. It was like several strokes of the cane landing simultaneously, all from different angles, and even that didn't describe it adequately, the twiggy branches still hard and firm despite the soaking in brine ensured that over the whole wide area of contact every square millimetre of bottom flesh received its individual intensely stinging message of pain. The result was a scorching searing sensation that left the entire bottom on fire.
Those first two strokes had been enough to revitalise the colour of poor Jane's bum from its deep purply red back to a fiery brightness contrasting vividly with the rest of her pale white body.
Down came the birch again on the middle of the rounded cheeks. A sharp cry from Jane and much writhing and wriggling showed that her bottom was once more receiving a most impressive punishment. Laura enjoying the effect her efforts were having, became a little careless with the next stroke. She intended to catch the very lowest part of the outstretched buttocks, the fleshy underhang, but the birch landed even lower, striking across the bottom crease with much of the impact being taken by the top few inches of upper thigh, she glanced quickly at Mr Hall remembering now he had admonished Muriel for strapping the top of Jane's thighs but realising it was unintentional he affected not to notice. Jane however certainly noticed, letting out a shrill screech and many 'oohs' and 'aahs' as the full effect was felt by the tender flesh.
The trolley cavorted as she bounced and writhed about. She would have jumped up if she could, but being arched right over the trolley made it impossible so despite the heaving her bottom remained thrust upwards fully available for further birching.
Laura, as though to correct any wrong impression given by the wayward stroke, quickly struck again - this time carefully aiming at the very middle of the writhing bum. This made it writhe even more energetically, whilst Jane continued moaning and sobbing. The squirming backside looked terribly sore with the bruised flesh cruelly scratched and scored by the twiggy birch.
Laura felt some compassion returning and decided one more stroke would suffice. She made sure that this landed squarely across the central mass of the scarlet bottom making it jerk about frantically and drawing a howl from Jane who remained up-ended, gasping between sobs. while Laura moved away and laid down the birch.
Carrie, who had been watching from her position at the end of the sideboard, came forward. Holding me trolley still she assisted Jane to clamber off and stand up. Once upright Jane swayed before walking stiffly back to her chair. She sat down very gently but even so gave a whimper of pain as her burning bottom met the leather seat. Trying to brush the tears from her eyes before fresh ones filled them she looked round the table. Surely they must be satisfied now, she thought. Each one had had his or her turn at giving her what Mr Hall called 'corrective lessons’, most of them extremely painful. In doing so they had exploited her nudity, forcing her to show off her intimate parts in a most rude fashion and thus humiliated her sexually.
After serving coffee, Carrie came round with liqueurs and Jane shakily accepted a brandy which she hoped would help her compose herself. Still giving an occasional sniffle, she watched anxiously as Carrie returned to the sideboard but to her relief the maid busied herself stacking plates onto the trolley which she then wheeled out of the room.
No new implement of punishment had been brought to the table. It really is over, thought Jane. She sipped her brandy, holding the glass with both hands so that her forearms partly hid her naked breasts which, perhaps as a result of her scorched bottom had become highly stimulated - the nipples sticking out like hard glistening cherries.
'I trust our home-produced birch gave you something to think about, Jane.' said Mr Hall passing his cigarette case round the table. ‘Laura only gave you a few strokes but they seemed rather effective. Anyway it means there is only one person who hasn't had a turn at thrashing you - and here she is!' he exclaimed as Carrie re-entered the room. 'I think we’ll allow Jane a few more minutes' rest, Carrie, before you give her a final dose of correction.’
‘No, oh please Mr Hall – I couldn’t stand any more. I really couldn’t....please’ gasped Jane who for the past few minutes really believed her ordeal was over and now found her hopes dashed.
‘I am sorry, Jane.' replied Mr Ha1l 'we agreed that everybody would share in punishing you so Carrie must have her turn.'
'Oh no, oh please Mr Hall I’ve taken my punishment from all of you, but not your maid - please!' Jane sounded offended as well as shocked. Despite the torment she had been put through deep down she was still a social climber and the indignity of having her bare bottom punished by a servant horrified her almost as much as the prospect of further pain.
'You are in no position to object to Carrie young lady' Mr Hall declared sharply. 'She is an employee of mine like you, but unlike you she is loyal and honest. And for your information I gave her some shares as a Christmas present so she is a shareholder too. Now then, Carrie our collection of punishment instruments have all been produced so which would you like to use?'
'Well.' said Carrie coming forward 'having helped to make the birch perhaps I should choose it - but I think it had better be the cane. I should be able to wield that more accurately’
'Right, that's agreed then’ said Mr Hall bluffly. ‘Give her six of the best! But I think we’d better let Jane put her knickers back on for the final beating – her bottom is looking just a touch sore. Jane, you will put yourself at Carrie's disposal. Carry on Carrie.' he joked.
‘Very good, sir,' Carrie answered obediently. She had picked up the cane. Her tone challenged ‘I would like to one you in the same position as you were when Mrs Muriel tawsed you. Miss Forsyth - bent over the back of your chair. So could you bring it out please and get into position!’
A very despondent Jane rose. She picked her knickers back up and pulled them over her aching bottom. They weren’t going to offer much protection but she was grateful to have something between her sore flesh and that wicked rod. She moved her chair to the required spot, reversed it and slowly bent over the back. She hoped at least that Carrie would be embarrassed at having to cane her and her strokes therefore nervous and light.
What she did not know was that Carrie was no stranger to corporal punishment, although up to now always in the role of the receiver rather than the giver. When he offered her a job Mr Hall made it clear to Carrie that wrong doing would mean a spanking. Now after a year they had reached a close understanding of each other's needs. At roughly fortnightly intervals or whenever she saw that particular look in his eye, Carrie would knock over an ashtray or clumsily spill something giving an excuse for the inevitable punishment. Over his knee she would go, down would come her little white knickers and an eager hand would first thoroughly feel it and then soundly spank her tight young bottom until it turned nicely pink and warm. However, although her bum was always well reddened the spankings were never too hard or prolonged and several pay increases plus the gift of shares already mention ensured that Carrie accepted the situation without complaint.
Whilst preparing the birch she and Mr Hall had discussed in detail the proposed dinner party disciplining of Jane, including the agreement that Carrie would give one of the punishments.. All day therefore she had been waiting for this moment and intended to make the most of it.
'Can you reach a little further over please Miss Forsyth and push your bottom out a bit more’. Jane was livid that a mere maid should be giving her such orders but also noted with some dismay that Carrie was speaking very firmly and appeared far from nervous.
So for the second time that evening, Jane found herself stretched over the chair back with her hand grasping the seat and her knicker-clad bottom thrust outwards to form a most tempting target. The thin satin was taut over the burning flesh – it did little to conceal what lay beneath and the bruised and tender appearance was not going to distract Carrie from her purpose. In her opinion Jane was an arrogant snob who looked down on the likes of maids. So, no matter how sore Jane's bum was Carrie looked forward to making it dance about a bit more. She was still not satisfied that the bottom was fully arched and outstretched and curtly told Jane to place her nylon-clad legs wider apart. This pleased the onlookers at the table who were once more treated to a generous view of an almost bare bottom awaiting it’s just chastisement.
Carrie placed the cane across the crown of the cheeks – tapping the knickers gently and noting with pleasure how the flesh quivered at the touch. Back and up she lifted it and then - Whack.!, the first stroke was delivered bang on target. It was a hard stroke and brought a sharp cry from Jane - her bum giving an inevitable reaction of jerking and moving about.
The second stroke was traumatic. Carrie just aimed again at the fleshy middle area but by sheer chance the cane landed exactly on top of the first stroke. The effect was electric. The acute pain that shot through her bottom, coupled with her pent up fury at being punished by Carrie, made Jane lose control. Emitting a shriek, as the cane struck, she jumped up from the chair and turned round her eyes blazing through the tears. 'How dare you hit me like that - it hurt much too much - you birch - you vicious little bitch!' As she spoke Jane was clutching her bottom squeezing the cheeks and then she groaned.
'Tch, Tch’ from Mr Hall. ‘I will not allow Carrie to be spoken to like that. She is only carrying out my orders; When you have calmed down, Jane, you will kindly get back over that chair. For your rudeness to Carrie you will receive an extra two strokes and we’ll have your knickers down right now – I was trying to be generous but you clearly still have much to learn. Carrie, lower Miss Forsyth’s knickers at once and then start again - give Jane a full six on the bare’.
I understand’, Mr Hall Carrie smiled and pulled the tiny, stolen, knickers down to the stocking tops where she neatly arranged them as if the frame the bottom. Stretched taut by the spread legs they reminded everyone of Jane’s submissive position. ‘When you are ready, Miss Forsyth!’
If looks could kill, Carrie would have expired there and then Jane seemed about to say something but thought better of it and once more turned and bend over the chair. Carrie took perverse delight in one more telling her to spread her legs more and stick her now naked bottom out. One sensed there was more to this girl than appeared in the normal course of her duties as a maid. When Jane had complied to her complete satisfaction, Carrie proceeded with the caning.
With deliberation and allowing plenty of time between each she delivered four hard, loud strokes of that capable cane to the out-thrust bum. This time none of them over-lapped but they still made Jane cry out and her bottom responded with its now familiar display of writhing and jerking under punishment. Bravely, Jane struggled to keep her bottom defiantly pushed outwards.
For the fifth stroke of this new series. Carrie aimed at and succeeded in striking the crease joining bottom underhand and upper thigh – just above the lowered knickers. Jane shrieked. She let go of me chair seat for an instant but quickly re-gripped it determined not to have her punishment extended further. But oh! how it did hurt. The skinfold was a sensitive area anyway but it had already been tenderised by Muriel's tawse and Laura’s birch - now this savage stroke of the cane sent a searing pain coursing through Jane’s system and seemed to take an eternity before starting to ease. Indeed Jane was still catching her breath from the shock when the next and final stroke contacted above the middle of her heaving bum. She felt it certainly, but only as an additional sting to rear quarters already on fire.
Vaguely she heard Mr Hall telling her to bring her chair back to the table and sit down. In a kind of daze she did so - stiffly and very painfully. This last caning coming on top of all the other punishments had somehow brought her to the end of her tether. Her bottom chastised to the limit of its endurance. And it was extraordinary how meek Jane now seemed.
Mr Hall passed her a brandy. 'Have another drink my dear, you look as though you need it - and then you can get dressed yes with those as well! He indicated the apricot knickers at half mast and the bra on the table 'You have paid for those now and I think you have probably learned your lesson. While you are dressing, Carrie will order a cab to take you home’.
Jane was quite unable to answer.

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.