I stood out­side the office door feel­ing like a ner­vous wreck, I had cold sweaty palms and a feel­ing of fear in the pit of my stom­ach.  All I want­ed to do was run away, I was in deep trou­ble and I new it.  Worse still I knew what the con­se­quences were light­ly to be and I had a feel­ing that my bot­tom was not going to get away unscathed.

 

I did not know how long I had been stand­ing out­side the door, it seemed like an age, and deep down I knew in real­i­ty run­ning was not an option, I had to do it.  I took a num­ber of deep breathes, raised my hand bold­ly and rapped my knuck­les on the door three times, my heart was I my mouth I was so ner­vous.  I hoped beyond hope that maybe I’d been for­got­ten about and Miss S had gone home for the week­end, after all it was well past 4pm on a Fri­day afternoon.

 

My hopes were soon dashed “enter”

 

My quiv­er­ing hand slow­ly reached out and I gin­ger­ly turned the brass knob, which, cold to the touch sent a shiv­er through me.  I slow­ly entered the room not want­i­ng to face my fate with Miss S

 

My heart sank as along with Miss S there was also the per­son who had caught me red hand­ed Miss P

 

They both stood behind the desk, arms fold­ed, tight lipped and look­ing extreme­ly stern and annoyed, I felt about 2 inch­es tall

 

Miss S:  “Hur­ry up boy, shut the door behind you and stand here” she point­ed to a spot on the floor just in front of the desk

 

“yes miss”

 

I looked at the grim site on the desk a long, yel­low, crook han­dled cane and my pack­et of cigarettes

 

Miss S “So then boy, Miss P tells me she caught you smok­ing this morn­ing, do you deny it?”

 

“Miss, no miss, but look I only had one and I did­n’t enjoy it, I was going to throw the rest away” I lied try­ing to avoid what seemed like the inevitable thrashing

 

Miss P: “Boy, you must think I am stu­pid, well do you boy?”

 

“Miss, no miss it’s true”

 

Miss P: “You obvi­ous­ly do think I’m stupid”

 

“No miss”

 

Miss P: “Don’t inter­rupt me! This is the sec­ond time you’ve had to vis­it me for the same rea­son you idiot boy, don’t you remem­ber your last six of the best?”

 

I blushed with embar­rass­ment at me own stu­pid­i­ty, as if I had for­got­ten the six stripes of fire across my clothed buttocks

 

“Miss, no miss”

 

Miss P “You appear to be lying to me again, as if you had remem­bered your last pun­ish­ment you would­n’t be stand­ing here in front of me again would you?”

 

“Miss, no miss” I had to con­cede to my own stupidity

 

Miss P picked up the cane and start­ed to swish it through the air and then bend­ing it into a half moon “Miss, no miss” she repeat­ed thought­ful­ly “Well, if you for­got the last pun­ish­ment so read­i­ly  I’m going make sure this is some­thing you will nev­er for­get. Six for being caught smok­ing, six for your sec­ond offence, six for lying to me and all on the bare.  That’s 18 stokes on your bare but­tocks, do you under­stand boy”

 

“Yes miss, i’m real­ly sor­ry miss”

 

Miss S: “Its far to late for sor­ry my lad but don’t wor­ry by the end of this you real­ly will be sor­ry trust me, because you see the strokes will also be dou­bled.  Miss P isn’t just here to observe, fetch your­self a cane Miss P, after I have laid on one stroke Miss P will fol­low imme­di­ate­ly with anoth­er, this will how­ev­er only count as one stroke, which you will count aloud and thank us for, understood?”

 

I nod­ded

 

Miss S “UNDERSTOOD?”

 

“Yes miss”

 

Miss S ” Now drop your trousers and pants and bend over the desk like a good boy”

 

As is did what i was told Miss Ps heels clicked on the floor as she walked over to the cup­board to select her cane, I could­n’t stop my eyes from fol­low­ing her stockinged legs.  My shorts and pants feel to floor and I bent over the desk, assum­ing the required posi­tion I gripped on to the far side of the desk and arched my back.  Miss S lift­ed the tail of my shirt and took up posi­tion on my right hand side whilst Miss P was swish­ing her choice of cane through the air she joined on the left.

 

I felt cool rat­tan tap­ping on my defence­less bare skin, I grit­ted my teeth and then swish, crack & swish crack.

 

I have so fart received six entries and have decid­ed to wait until I have 10 to make the final deci­sion so its still time to write your story.

Miss Pren­der­gast and I will then choose the win­ner together.

Three Accounts

(Edit­ed by Verity)

From Miss Svenson

The café at The Vic­to­ria and Albert Muse­um a few weeks ago – that’s where she found us. We were sit­ting out by the water fea­ture, Miss Pren­der­gast and I, in the vast court­yard. Being a balmy March the ear­ly after­noon sun split our table diag­o­nal­ly across. This beau­ti­ful inner core is a thor­ough­ly con­ve­nient space for our week­ly catch-up; for me because the rear stair­case of The V & A takes one right into The Nation­al Art Library – that day I’d been gath­er­ing more infor­ma­tion on Goya’s dark peri­od (well, even dark­er than usu­al peri­od) for my dis­ser­ta­tion, I think – and for Miss Pren­der­gast because this cor­ner of Lon­don is clut­tered with the inde­pen­dent bou­tiques and book­shops she adores.

 

Miss Pren­der­gast was telling me in hushed tones – not that hushed; it’s thrilling some­times to feel we may be over­heard – about how she was long­ing to deal with a trainee man­ag­er at her branch of Bar­clays: “Go to Inter­view Room Three, make sure the blinds are closed, remove your jack­et, your shoes, your trousers and pants and wait for me there! And when I’m ready I’m going to bend you over and give you such a smacked bot­tom that you’ll …“

 

We’d been only semi-aware of the vague­ly famil­iar girl at the next table, but on the words “smacked bot­tom” her papers went fly­ing in all direc­tions. Fanned dense­ly writ­ten sides of A4. She blames the wind, freak and instan­ta­neous, but Miss Pren­der­gast is adamant that all mishap would have been avoid­ed had her atten­tion been on her own table rather than ours. She was almost lift­ing her own bot­tom off the seat to catch our words appar­ent­ly. A vol­ley of urgent squeaks and her des­per­ate lunges between the tables prompt­ed a few of us to join her in the chase. I know how I’d feel if my hours of hard work were escap­ing into the skies above South Kens­ing­ton. All notes gath­ered togeth­er, per­haps our mater­nal instincts took over. Well, the sweet­ly round-faced lamb was stand­ing there, her low­er lip trem­bling, on the verge. Miss Pren­der­gast has­tened off to get her a restora­tive white wine, and a glass each for us. At my insis­tence the girl decamped to our table, so I helped her pack her two lumpy cloth bags, one pro­claim­ing in colour­ful let­ters I’ve got ART. It turned out I did recog­nise her. She attends one of the same class­es I do, Expres­sion­ist to Abstract, and also finds the lec­tur­er a com­plete mys­tery. As easy to fol­low, I sug­gest­ed, as the direc­tions for flat-pack fur­ni­ture – and I’m Scan­dana­vian! She seemed to like that one, and her gig­gles were infectious.

 

Miss Pren­der­gast, apol­o­gis­ing for the long queue, arrived as the young lady, Ver­i­ty, and I were chuck­ling over one of my DIY dis­as­ters. Well, not so young, though – thir­ty-one. Sin­gle, stay­ing with a friend in Finch­ley, miss­ing her horse in Scot­land, and hold­ing a ten­ta­tive job offer from one of the East End gal­leries should she get a First. The chat­ter flowed cheer­ful­ly between us and ate up the time.

 

Just as Miss Pren­der­gast fin­ished the last of the olives and I was con­tem­plat­ing anoth­er hour or two in the Library, Ver­i­ty gath­ered her courage. Her voice dipped and fal­tered, giv­ing away her attempt to sound casu­al: “I’m not being nosey but was that, er, a sto­ry? Or for real? About” (a cracked cough) “the smacked bot­tom? You know, smack­ing that man’s bottom?”

From Miss Prendergast

 

It was my idea to ask her to sign an agree­ment. Hard­ly a legal doc­u­ment, and we wouldn’t want it to be, but it made the process more real. Drew it out delec­tably:  I, Ver­i­ty Brook­er, rescind com­plete respon­si­bil­i­ty to Miss Sven­son and Miss Pren­der­gast, for a full peri­od of three hours, on Sat­ur­day 5^th May, to imple­ment any cor­rec­tion­al mea­sures over my per­son as they see fit. And so on.

 

Team­ing up with Elsa Sven­son has opened my eyes, in so many ways. Not only is she fast becom­ing one of my clos­est friends but our adven­tures togeth­er leave me eager. Eager for more of some­thing I had no idea was miss­ing. I was shy at first, a touch embar­rassed to be in the room while she was deal­ing with a male vis­i­tor. One of her most reg­u­lar guests is a scruffy oaf named Pip­kin – hmmm – who seems to be able to absorb spank­ing and tawsing of indus­tri­al quan­ti­ties. Just before his third vis­it with­in the space of a month Elsa had hint­ed that she’d be might­i­ly grate­ful if I could take over for a lit­tle while, just with the hand-spank­ing, to let her action hand recov­er. I was unsure; would I hurt Pip­kin, in the wrong way, or, worse, not hurt him? Would he see straight through me? Miss Sven­son came straight back with the asser­tion that I wouldn’t know until I tried and that the object of the game wasn’t to win a BAFTA. But after the first dozen or so uncer­tain slaps, once I was into my stride, the zone as Elsa calls it, I felt like a nat­ur­al. And I didn’t want to give him back, let him off my lap. Miss Sven­son reck­oned she’d nev­er seen the naughty toad squirm as much, to the extent that at one point she’d had to step to the side of the chair and clamp his slen­der legs firm­ly between hers.

 

I’d asked Elsa a cou­ple of times whether any girls num­bered among her clients. No, well, rarely. So I wasn’t hold­ing my breath – until Ver­i­ty land­ed in our laps. Over our laps.

 

The per­son­able, unlucky-in-love and well-round­ed Ver­i­ty. Not quite over­weight but at just five foot four her gen­er­ous poundage can’t help but make for a full bosom and a pen­du­lous bot­tom. The kind of bot­tom that sur­pris­es every time she man­ages to coax and squeeze it in to her tight frayed jeans. And almost as entic­ing, a light­ly freck­led face and fair hair that fights, against its boss’s wish­es, to form a fringe. There’s def­i­nite­ly some­thing about Ver­i­ty; cute­ness, yes, but enthu­si­asm too. Not pushy — enough mod­esty — but a qui­et­ly deter­mined grab­ber of life.

 

The first cou­ple of chats we had, the three of us, after the time her essay notes had tak­en flight felt real cat and mouse stuff. Elsa was con­vinced that this young lady would be beg­ging at some point to know more, and beg­ging again after that to have her bot­tom smacked. I wasn’t so sure but she made me promise not to raise the top­ic. Ver­i­ty must come to us, cross the line on her own. And, you’ve guessed; Miss Sven­son one, Miss Pren­der­gast nil. After wan­der­ing through all sorts of top­ics, even tak­ing in hottest boy­bands (I still say The Bay City Rollers though I was shout­ed down), Ver­i­ty had nowhere else to hide. Silence. Fum­bling. Look­ing towards each of us in turn. Then,

 

“So – oh, I know what I was going to ask you. You know you said that, er, what was it? . . that you’d actu­al­ly spanked peo­ple? . . you weren’t mean­ing as a sort of fan­ta­sy, in their heads? Well, your heads? But actu­al­ly for real?”

 

“Y‑e-ssss?” Elsa matched the drawn-out word with a quizzi­cal twin­kle in her eye.

 

“Um, well, what’s it like then?”

 

“How do you mean?”, feign­ing slight surprise.

 

“No, no, sor­ry, not to do it I mean . . I mean, well, to be spanked?”

 

I rel­ished a mis­tress at the height of her craft.

 

“Ver­i­ty … are you try­ing to tell me that you have nev­er, in your life, had your bot­tom smacked?”

 

“Sor­ry. No! Well, yes . . No – near­ly. But not, no. Not smacked.”

 

Pro­fes­sion­al inter­view­ers will tell you that with the right ques­tion­ing you can lead a can­di­date any­where, tap the deep­est streams of hon­esty. With ner­vous gig­gles and a cou­ple of false starts Ver­i­ty released a trick­le of infor­ma­tion and ideas. Her inter­est in spank­ing wasn’t a new thing to her. Soon a riv­er, then a flood. As with many peo­ple per­haps it had been with her all her life. Cer­tain­ly from the age of sev­en when the ‘near­ly’ had happened.

 

She’d been cheeky to her teacher, Miss Ter­ry – that was very cred­i­ble – and had been asked to wait behind while the rest of the class went out to play. By chance anoth­er teacher, a Mrs Jones, had walked in to col­lect some books. The dia­logue between the two teach­ers sound­ed more in keep­ing with a cou­ple of pan­tomime dames; vamp­ing it up, ask­ing each oth­er repeat­ed­ly if there was any way on earth one might cure pupils of cheek.

 

“I know!” exclaimed Miss Ter­ry, who was perched on the front rim of her desk.

 

With­out warn­ing her two strong but gen­tle hands had con­nect­ed with Verity’s waist, scooped her bod­i­ly into the air and deposit­ed her over the broad lap wait­ing for her. And by all accounts Miss Terry’s lap was broad.

 

“Are you think­ing what I’m think­ing Mrs Jones?”

 

“I do believe I am Miss Ter­ry. But do car­ry on, please, don’t let me stop your train of thought.”

 

“Well, I’m think­ing to myself that this is exact­ly the sort of girl that might ben­e­fit from a smacked bottom.”

 

“That’s uncan­ny. Just what I was think­ing Miss Terry!”

 

But to Verity’s, now aching, regret she nev­er found out whether or not Miss Ter­ry intend­ed to tie action to her words. Shock and a cock­tail of oth­er emo­tions had over­whelmed. Tears coursed her cheeks unchecked and there was an urgent knot­ting sen­sa­tion in her stom­ach. To raise her bot­tom, Miss Terry’s warm hand had slipped effort­less­ly under Verity’s tum­my, cup­ping and lift­ing at the same time. Ter­ri­fied but­ter­flies strain­ing inside her. Tum­bling around each oth­er. Then, invol­un­tar­i­ly, as she gave in, fierce embar­rass­ment. Much more shame­ful than the tears at the tips of her nose and chin. She real­ly had wet herself.

 

She was imme­di­ate­ly returned to ground lev­el, con­soled and led to the PE store by Mrs Jones to be left with some fresh pants – hor­ri­ble bag­gy ones –

and deeply con­fused pangs for what might have been.

 

And here we are, Ver­i­ty and I, on a Sat­ur­day morn­ing, steam­ing mugs of cof­fee in our hands, and the signed agree­ment to one side, wait­ing for Miss Sven­son to enter.

 

From Ver­i­ty

OMG, this is unre­al. I know I’m here, bod­i­ly, in Miss Svenson’s study, but my mind is strug­gling with the idea. My legs car­ried me on to the 8.33 at Lon­don Bridge and then walked me round and round Penge so that I wasn’t ear­ly. So my body is respon­si­ble for this sit­u­a­tion is it?

 

Miss Pren­der­gast seems to under­stand why I’m find­ing small talk unchar­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly dif­fi­cult and is doing her best to relax me with her friend­ly ques­tion­ing. My eyes are mov­ing alter­nate­ly between her and the brass door han­dle, expect­ing it to turn. Now. No, per­haps now.

 

I’ve just missed it because the door has opened and closed and Miss Sven­son is in the room with us. She’s smiling.

 

“Ver­i­ty! Good morn­ing. How love­ly – you’re wear­ing what we sug­gest­ed. I’m pleased.”

 

If you’re won­der­ing, a pale pink blouse, a pleat­ed skirt (Miss Sven­son had said black or navy, but char­coal is all I have in a fuller style), white socks – yuck! – and flat-soled dark shoes. My hair’s in two bunch­es which Miss Pren­der­gast helped me with when I arrived. I was impressed she could do it with­out tak­ing off her black gloves.

 

“Right. Maybe you’d be kind enough to fetch my chair for me, and place it in

front of the bureau, just here.”

 

Miss Sven­son, just to the side of her ele­gant kid­ney-shaped desk, is point­ing to the cen­tre of the car­pet. My body – my body again – is leap­ing to atten­tion, swing­ing my chair round, back legs first, towards the mid­dle of the room. Miss Prendergast’s hand is check­ing my arm, though, caus­ing the chair to lurch.

 

“No Ver­i­ty. Miss Sven­son specif­i­cal­ly said her chair. That’s your chair. Dear oh dear.”

 

This seems to prompt a flick­er of amuse­ment between the two friends. I’m apol­o­gis­ing and slow­ing down. Now care­ful­ly edg­ing round. A cou­ple of steady­ing breaths. Then guid­ing the chair, gin­ger­ly, to avoid the radi­a­tor and the obsta­cles, till it comes to rest on the pre­cise spot.

 

“Thank you, much better.”

 

Seat­ed, Miss Svenson’s eye­line is below mine. I’m being moved clos­er, with a fin­ger­tip pres­sure on my right wrist. We bump light­ly as I reach her but this is obvi­ous­ly where she wants me, stand­ing, my thigh rest­ing imper­cep­ti­bly against hers. Through the taut­ness of her skirt it declares itself a warm but unyield­ing thigh.

 

“Now, Ver­i­ty, so that there are no sur­pris­es I’m going to tell you what’s going to hap­pen to you today.”

 

Her soft voice has a sing-song quality.

 

“When I’m ready – and only when I’m ready – I’m going to put you across my knee. Here.”

 

With the back of her hand, a dis­crete glide, she’s indi­cat­ing her tidy lap. Wowee – cor­po­ral pun­ish­ment for dummies.

 

“And then I’m going to spank you, with my hand. And I’m going to keep spank­ing you. For as long as I feel like it. And I’m in the mood for it to be long, oh yes! . . This is what we call the warm­ing-up. Because then I shall ask Miss Pren­der­gast to undress you – take away the skirt and pull down the under­wear. And I shall smack your bare bot­tom. Real­ly smack it.”

 

There’s a teas­ing breeze, pos­si­bly from the direc­tion of the win­dow, on the back of my leg. A feath­er cool­ness, now behind my upper thigh, now play­ing over the sur­face of my bot­tom. But this breeze has fin­gers because I can feel them solic­i­tous­ly adjust­ing the line the elas­tic of my panties forms at one leg, just below my cheek. Her touch is the light­est, but utter­ly controlling.

 

“We’ll give you plen­ty of lit­tle breaks – don’t you wor­ry. Time to recov­er yourself.”

 

I’m look­ing into her face for a sign but have to turn away. Her words bub­ble on, hyp­not­i­cal­ly, and I’m con­cen­trat­ing on the beau­ti­ful line of pearls around her neck. Miss Pren­der­gast is lean­ing for­ward in her seat, as though she wants to miss noth­ing. Her expres­sion is focused.

 

My wrist is being tak­en, and is lead­ing me for­ward again. This time the tra­jec­to­ry is plac­ing my nose inch­es from the car­pet. I feel my feet brac­ing, the oth­er side of Miss Sven­son and it dawns on me that my bot­tom, angled, is the high­est point of me. Alone and vul­ner­a­ble in the air.

 

The smacks are mea­sured, part of a pat­tern, but each one has its own char­ac­ter almost. Occa­sion­al­ly one doesn’t con­nect so square­ly and is more of a thud or a slip, a wast­ed shot. Most are any­thing but wast­ed, though, and every ten smacks or so one real­ly pen­e­trates my defences and makes me gasp with its inten­si­ty. They progress, three on one cheek, three on the oth­er. Sets of thir­ty – count­ing helps me bear them a bit – inter­spersed with sharp angry vol­leys, unpre­dictable, a dozen or so wal­lops deliv­ered hard and fast to any point of my bot­tom that gets in the way as I squirm to avoid them.

 

Then more sets, and more, car­ry me on.

 

I’m not sure I can take much more.  My knick­ers, stretched to break­ing, con­nect my knees at ungain­ly angles – like a lig­a­ture, in pow­der blue. One shoe has come off and my white-socked foot is mak­ing jerky curls in the air to the reg­u­lar thwack of the leather-soled slip­per. My poor bot­tom. It’s a fleshy pres­sure pad, draw­ing the heat relent­less­ly in to a tight core. Looks-wise – I’ve been allowed to study it when Miss Pren­der­gast has tak­en me over to the mir­ror – it’s a cush­ion-shaped patch­work of grad­ed reds and pinks. They spread all over and round to the sides.

 

The pain is many-lay­ered I’m real­is­ing. The imme­di­ate bursts soon dis­si­pate but they stoke a fire below which pul­sates; at the deep­est lev­el it has a com­pul­sive edge. And in between, oth­er heats, some nag­ging, some urgent.

 

And the flur­ry is stop­ping. Miss Svenson’s hands are mas­sag­ing again, over the hard­er areas of skin. Light­ly at first and then insis­tent­ly, prepar­ing me for yet more perhaps.

 

“She’s doing ever so well, Miss Sven­son, don’t you think?”

 

“She cer­tain­ly is Miss Pren­der­gast. Wrig­gles a bit – and sounds a bit like a ten­nis play­er– but, yes, doing very well.”

 

“Do you think we should try her with what we do to the big boys some­times? I’ll sup­port her if you like … ”

 

I’m being helped up by Miss Pren­der­gast and turned to face the book­shelves. The silence itself is cool­ing before I hear Miss Sven­son qui­et­ly open­ing a cup­board the oth­er side of the study. The chink and bump of a large hol­low recep­ta­cle being moved. Light knocks from inside it, wood­en almost.

 

With­out warn­ing Miss Prendergast’s deft fin­gers are undo­ing the fas­ten­ings of my blouse. Begin­ning with the one above my cleav­age, down to the last, below my bel­ly button.

 

“Thank you Ver­i­ty, very help­ful”; uncon­scious­ly I’m angling my right shoul­der for her. And the blouse is being fold­ed square­ly and placed on the chair my skirt rests on. I’m stand­ing in front of her now in only bra, socks and one shoe — panties at half-mast. Feel­ing a bit sil­ly. Work­ing behind me in one move­ment she’s unclip­ping and remov­ing my bra from me. With the con­fi­dence of a far­ri­er she lifts my left calf in a per­pen­dic­u­lar motion inten­tion­al­ly tip­ping me, forc­ing me to bal­ance against her shoul­der. The shoe is off – clump! —  and her thumb and lit­tle fin­ger stretch the elas­tane top of my sock wide, piv­ot back, glid­ing it down­wards, inside out and off. The same again with the oth­er sock. With­out hes­i­ta­tion, she’s kneel­ing direct­ly in front of me, tak­ing the front tri­an­gle of my knick­ers, scrunch­ing the mate­r­i­al in one hand, and shim­my­ing them down. I’m hav­ing to side­step out quick­ly or risk top­pling over.

 

She’s turn­ing me again, this time towards Miss Sven­son. In Miss Svenson’s hand, held hor­i­zon­tal­ly for me to admire is a thin crook-han­dled cane. We’re look­ing at each oth­er for a few sec­onds. Again Miss Sven­son has the hint of a smile – oth­er­wise, a pic­ture of serenity.

 

“It would be wrong if we didn’t let you expe­ri­ence the cane . . just a taster. Twelve strokes. I know you can take it.”

 

I feel a bit flut­tery, unsure how to stand, what is expect­ed. In any case Miss Pren­der­gast now occu­pies the cen­tre of the carpet.

 

In answer, “Place your hands on Miss Prendergast’s shoul­ders, Ver­i­ty please.”

 

A very odd pos­ture. I’m look­ing at the back of Miss Prendergast’s jack­et, tai­lored, dark brown, styl­ish­ly heavy but­tons. No soon­er are my palms meet­ing the smooth padded wool, though, than Miss Pren­der­gast is tak­ing my wrists and tuck­ing them towards her chest. The momen­tum is let­ting her fold my upper arms under hers, so that I’m being made to per­form a back­ward embrace on her, my jaw­line touch­ing her cheek. I notice her soft skin smells faint­ly of soap, an old-fash­ioned and rather good soap.

 

Although Miss Pren­der­gast is stoop­ing slight­ly I’m hav­ing to strain to a tip­toe just to reach the ground. She’s around four inch­es taller than I am. As she stands to her prop­er height I now under­stand the pur­pose of the posi­tion I’m in; dan­gling in midair with my roast­ing bot­tom thrust provoca­tive­ly out­wards, that’s the pur­pose. But Miss Pren­der­gast hasn’t fin­ished and leans for­ward, bend­ing from her waist, angling me high­er. I’m wor­ry­ing that my cen­tre of grav­i­ty might top­ple us right over, but appar­ent­ly not. With a final flour­ish she’s stick­ing her bot­tom out. Right out. I’m a wob­bling bea­con atop a brown-suit­ed mountain.

 

Miss Sven­son is tak­ing time to posi­tion her­self. Each time she adjusts her stance she cal­i­brates again with three quick taps, one-two-three, to my right but­tock. I can feel now at each check that the tip of the cane is find­ing pre­cise­ly the same spot, just inside the far edge of the well-worked crim­son oblong.

 

Miss Svenson’s voice has warm-edged author­i­ty: “We’ll take these slow­ly, Ver­i­ty, as you’re new to this, in sets of four. And if you wrig­gle too much, well . . I may just have to add more strokes.”

 

Right on cue Miss Pren­der­gast rotates her hips back, round, in two or three huge arcs. Nat­u­ral­ly my hips and bot­tom have no choice but to fol­low the move­ments beneath me, exag­ger­at­ing them, in what can only be described as wicked­ly auda­cious wrig­gling. A fine time for pantomime . .

 

“Right you are, my girl. Four­teen strokes it is!”

 

More taps to per­fect the line of her swing. An age is pass­ing before I can sense her pulling taut, back­ward, high­er. She’s releas­ing. Now! A clean whis­tle, a crack and I’m feel­ing that I’ve been cut in half. More excru­ci­at­ing than any­thing, ever. A shriek is tear­ing the air – is it mine?

 

“Take your time my dear. Breathe deeply. Recov­er. Absolute­ly no rush. We can do these one at a time, not a prob­lem . . you tell me when you’re ready for the next one.”

 

“Are you com­fort­able enough there Miss Pren­der­gast?” Miss Prendergast’s upbeat voice is affirm­ing some­where near my ear that she, like Miss Sven­son, is in this for the long haul.

 

I’m wait­ing now for the third stroke and realise I’m squeez­ing Miss Prendergast’s shoul­ders tight­ly. I force myself to con­scious­ly relax and hear myself croak­ing per­mis­sion for the next stroke to fall. Light taps, almost sooth­ing on my left cheek, and then a vicious­ly high-pitched hiss and crack. Tor­ture! I swal­low a breathy howl, and am rock­ing back and forth through the lim­it­ed inch­es allowed to me. My moans are qui­et and, I sense, accept­able to Miss Sven­son and Miss Prendergast.

 

The fourth stroke now, and it’s less intense. Maybe I real­ly can take this. Pain, yes, but very bearable.

 

How wrong; I’m too quick in say­ing I’m ready for stroke num­ber five. The taps are cur­so­ry and the cut severe, enveloped in dead­ly accu­ra­cy. A new agony. Fierce. I’m sob­bing now.

 

Miss Sven­son is step­ping round to the oth­er side of us, and Miss Pren­der­gast tilts and angles me afresh. But I’m a sur­vivor – one stroke at a time. And I’m grate­ful I can deter­mine the pace. A good cou­ple of min­utes I give myself between each of the last few.

 

Just two more to go.

 

Jeep­ers creep­ers that hurt! Right in the crease below my left but­tock, and I know I’m trem­bling with the acute shock.

 

“Well done, Ver­i­ty. I’m proud of you. You’re a brave girl. Just one more now and then Miss Pren­der­gast will put you down and get the cold cream. And a glass of wine maybe.”

 

I’m sure this is going to be roy­al­ty among cane strokes. So, grit­ting my teeth, whis­per­ing assent, stiff­en­ing my body and prepar­ing for some­thing hor­ri­bly real. The cane sings in the air and I scream. A real gut­tur­al scream — sub­sid­ing as quick­ly as it hap­pened, leav­ing me whim­per­ing to myself. In slow motion now, Miss Svenson’s reas­sur­ing hands are on my waist to steady me as my feet con­nect with the ground again. Blis­ter­ing hurt and exhil­a­rat­ing triumph.

 

My first instinct as I‘m step­ping on to the plat­form at Lon­don Bridge is to turn my phone on – can’t believe I’ve been near­ly four hours with­out it. It’s beep­ing into life and announc­ing an sms. Sender: Elsa Sven­son:  I’m click­ing, I’m click­ing, resent­ing the micro-sec­onds it’s tak­ing to load. Then, on the screen, in sil­ver-grey: A date for your diary . .  Sat 16 Jun. Are you free?  ES  x 

 

I’m grin­ning uncon­trol­lably. And the tum­bling but­ter­flies begin again.

 

 

 

‘Oh stop moan­ing, you sil­ly bitch.’
Miss Sven­son stopped dead in her tracks out­side the staff room door. She could hard­ly believe her ears. The lan­guage of the gut­ter! And used by one of her own teach­ers! As she marched into the staff room to inves­ti­gate, shak­ing with fury, the full grav­i­ty of the sit­u­a­tion became clear. The man using this offen­sive term – one which the well-bred Miss Sven­son regard­ed with utter abhor­rence – was none oth­er than Michael Dean, the head of the Eng­lish depart­ment. And the object of his abuse was Miss Pren­der­gast, the new geog­ra­phy teacher.
What were they talk­ing about? Miss Sven­son didn’t know and didn’t care. NOTHING could excuse such revolt­ing­ly sex­ist lan­guage by any man, let alone a man in a posi­tion of author­i­ty, respon­si­ble for teach­ing chil­dren how to behave. It called for exem­plary pun­ish­ment and, my God, she intend­ed to admin­is­ter it.
‘I want to see both of you in my study after school,’ she said, sweep­ing out of the room like an aveng­ing fury. She was still so angry when she reached the sanc­tu­ary of her study that she took out her senior cane and swished it angri­ly through the air, like a ten­nis play­er prepar­ing for action.
At the appoint­ed hour, Mr Dean and Miss Pren­der­gast pre­sent­ed them­selves out­side her study, and the no-non­sense Miss Sven­son got straight to the point.
‘If you think I am going to tol­er­ate a male teacher speak­ing to a female teacher in that man­ner, Michael, you have anoth­er think com­ing. I am going to cane you, severe­ly, and as you are a grown man, you will get a man-sized pun­ish­ment – twen­ty-four strokes, pants down.’
‘But, Miss Svenson – ’
‘No argu­ing! I have made my deci­sion and I intend to stick to it. Miss Pren­der­gast, I am extreme­ly sor­ry that you have been treat­ed in this way, but at least you will have the sat­is­fac­tion of see­ing the wrong­do­er get his just deserts. You will wit­ness the can­ing, at close quar­ters. In fact, you can assist me by prepar­ing Michael for his pun­ish­ment. Will you kind­ly remove all his clothes except his shirt and underpants?’
‘But, Miss Svenson – ’
‘I said, no argu­ing! Pro­ceed, please, Miss Prendergast.’
The young geog­ra­phy teacher need­ed lit­tle prompt­ing. She undressed Mr Dean as direct­ed, mak­ing sure that the process was as humil­i­at­ing as pos­si­ble, then led him to the pun­ish­ment bench, bent him over, lift­ed his shirt out of the way, and on the instruc­tion ‘Bare his bot­tom’ from Miss Sven­son, low­ered his under­pants to the top of his legs.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Miss Sven­son, impressed by her pro­fi­cien­cy. ‘Now where would you like to view the pun­ish­ment from?  It’s up to you.’
‘I think…’ Miss Pren­der­gast hes­i­tat­ed, then whis­pered. ‘I’d real­ly like to see his face as you cane him, if that’s all right.’
‘Of course,’ said Miss Sven­son.  ‘He will NOT be smil­ing. I can promise you that.’
And so it was arranged, with the strate­gi­cal­ly seat­ed Miss Pren­der­gast look­ing Mr Dean straight in the eyes as the cane lashed down on his back­side. But there were to be two more twists in the tale.
‘Please, Miss Sven­son,’ said the young geog­ra­phy teacher, after the first twelve strokes had been admin­is­tered, ‘could I change my posi­tion? I would rather like to see the marks of the cane. I have nev­er seen a can­ing before.’
‘Of course, dear,’ said Miss Sven­son, who prid­ed her­self on the accu­ra­cy, as well as the sever­i­ty, of her can­ings. With Miss Pren­der­gast in her new posi­tion, she laid on the remain­ing twelve strokes with cold, cal­cu­lat­ed fury. Then, on impulse, she turned to the oth­er woman.
‘Do you think Mr Dean has learnt his les­son? Or would you like to rein­force it?’
Miss Prendergast’s response was imme­di­ate. ‘I would cer­tain­ly like to rein­force it. Michael, get over my knee. Miss Sven­son, pass me your slipper.’
For the next five min­utes, the woman who had been called a bitch belaboured the already sore and striped bot­tom of the man who had called her a bitch until he was beg­ging for mercy.

Har­ry rolled out of bed, rubbed his eyes and threw open the cur­tains. The morn­ing sun was already high in a cloud­less sky and burn­ing down fierce­ly. He mut­tered a mild curse under his breath. Har­ry knew that he would have to com­plete today’s job in that stuffy air­less attic room. If only he had been allowed to work late the evening before! But the archi­tect had insist­ed he come back today. It was even worse that he couldn’t get into the build­ing until mid­day as they had some meet­ing going on for the whole morning.

He took a cold show­er to fresh­en up and dust­ed him­self lib­er­al­ly with tal­cum pow­der before dress­ing. As he ate his cere­al he decid­ed to stroll down to the cor­ner shop and buy a cold drink and a sand­wich for lat­er, so he would be able to work through to fin­ish as quick­ly as pos­si­ble. A cou­ple of hours’ work he reck­oned, then at least he would get his money.

It was wor­ry­ing that there was noth­ing else lined up for a cou­ple of weeks. A lot of his reg­u­lars were away on their hol­i­days, and oth­ers were on an econ­o­my dri­ve as a result of the reces­sion. Prop­er­ty main­te­nance came low­er on the bud­get than oth­er more impor­tant items of expen­di­ture. He bad­ly need­ed to get some­thing else to tide him over.

Despite these wor­ries he whis­tled cheer­ful­ly as he strolled down the street, although he felt a bit uneasy. With the idea of keep­ing as cool as pos­si­ble, that morn­ing he had dis­pensed with the nor­mal box­er shorts and tee shirt he wore under his paint­ing over­alls.  His mates called it ‘going com­man­do’ and he was not used to the feel­ing of vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty such a state of undress induced in him.

‘Morn­ing Pat!’ he called out as he entered the shop. The pro­pri­etor, who was serv­ing a cus­tomer at the till raised his hand in acknowledgment.

‘Just the very man,’ replied Mr. Patel. ‘This is the chap I was telling you about,’ he con­tin­ued, address­ing the lady at the counter, then turn­ing back to Har­ry, ‘come over and be intro­duced. I may have some busi­ness for you.’

Was this to be his lucky day after all? Har­ry hur­ried across and offered the lady his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you madam. Har­ry Thomas is the name, builder and decorator.’

The lady shook his hand firm­ly and smiled. ‘Elsa Sven­son, delight­ed to meet you too. Mr. Patel was just telling me that you do alter­ations as well as gen­er­al paint­ing. You see I have recent­ly moved into the area and my house needs a good facelift. First of all it needs paint­ing inside and out, and lat­er on I will be think­ing of putting in a new bath­room and kitchen. Is that the sort of thing you could do Harry?’

She spoke with a slight accent and Har­ry reck­oned that, with her blonde hair, she was prob­a­bly orig­i­nal­ly from Scan­di­navia, although she had excel­lent English.

‘Right up my street Elsa’. He sud­den­ly realised the pos­si­ble mis­take he had made, being a bit too famil­iar by using her first name but, then again, she had addressed him as Har­ry, and she con­tin­ued to smile. So he decid­ed to strike while the iron was hot.

‘Do you live far from here?’ he asked, ‘because I have an hour to spare and could take a look right away if it suits you.’

‘Excel­lent! It is only a few min­utes’ walk and I real­ly want to begin the refur­bish­ment as soon as pos­si­ble. Are you busy at the moment?’

‘As it hap­pens I could start first thing tomor­row morn­ing – that is if you’re hap­py with what­ev­er I quote of course.’

She set­tled her bill, thanked the shop­keep­er again polite­ly and they strolled togeth­er chat­ting ami­ably. Har­ry found out that she had just retired and moved from the next sub­urb to make a clean break from her pre­vi­ous life. He saw that the house was indeed rather run down as they walked up the front path.

‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked as she unlocked the front door.

‘That would be love­ly Elsa, thank you.’

She showed him into the front room and sug­gest­ed he have a look round since this was the first area she want­ed painted.

‘If I accept your quo­ta­tion for this room, I will see if I like your work. Then we can talk about the rest. Please make your­self at home. I will put the ket­tle on.’

Har­ry glanced around the room. A large num­ber of framed pho­tographs almost cov­ered one wall, so he care­ful­ly removed one of the pic­tures to check the con­di­tion of the plas­ter under­neath. As he replaced it he couldn’t help notic­ing that it was dat­ed the pre­vi­ous year, was a school pho­to­graph and his poten­tial client sat in the cen­tre of the front row. Scan­ning the oth­er pho­tographs, he saw that they were all of the same school and cov­ered a num­ber of years. Turn­ing towards the door­way he swung back the door back to reveal a tall vase with a Chi­nese pat­tern. It con­tained a cou­ple of umbrel­las, an ivory han­dled walk­ing stick, a shoot­ing stick and three more slen­der rat­tan sticks of vary­ing thick­ness with crook han­dles. Har­ry grinned and deft­ly slipped the mid­dle one out of the stand. He flour­ished it in the air caus­ing it to flex and make a dis­tinc­tive swish­ing sound. No doubt about it.

He heard the rat­tling sound of crock­ery com­ing towards the door, and hasti­ly tried to replace the stick where he had found it, but it snagged half way back into the stand and was left pro­trud­ing rather obvi­ous­ly. He quick­ly pulled out a pad and began to jot notes resum­ing his qui­et ran­dom whistling. The lady entered car­ry­ing a tray laden with teapot, milk jug and cups which she placed on the cof­fee table. Har­ry could not help notic­ing that there was a third cup on the tray.

‘Milk and sug­ar Har­ry?’ she asked politely.

‘Please, just a dash of milk and two sug­ars. I like my tea quite strong. Now how exact­ly would you like the room redec­o­rat­ed, so that I can work out a fair price?’

‘Oh! In here, just plain white ceil­ing and a bland emul­sion on the walls. You can see I have a lot of the sur­faces cov­ered. And the wood­work rubbed well down and repaint­ed white gloss. I think that does it. Quite sim­ple really.’

Har­ry made a note.

‘Elsa,’ he con­tin­ued, ‘do you mind if I ask, were you the famous head­mistress at Rush­down School? I couldn’t help spot­ting the school photographs.’

‘Why yes, Har­ry. By why is it you say “famous”?’

‘Well I went to Mil­lview, this side of town and there we all knew about the strict lady that ran our near­est com­peti­tor. Tough regime they said, but amaz­ing results both in exams and sports. I often won­dered what you might real­ly be like.’

‘I am not sure about “tough”, but I cer­tain­ly insist­ed on prop­er dis­ci­pline. It was the main rea­son I took ear­ly retire­ment you know,’ she con­tin­ued wist­ful­ly. ‘When they banned cor­po­ral pun­ish­ment, I some­how knew I didn’t want to continue.’

‘Real­ly!  We didn’t see much of that at Mil­lview. I had the slip­per once or twice in juniors, but then we got a new head­mas­ter who didn’t believe in phys­i­cal punishment.’

‘Oh yes, Mr. Edwards. A nice man, but I think he was a bit weak.’

‘That’s right, Mr. Edwards. He stopped the use of any form of smack­ing when I went up to senior school, so I nev­er real­ly knew much about it. By the way, I couldn’t help notic­ing that you have some sou­venirs of your time at school.’ Har­ry point­ed at the umbrel­la stand.

The lady glanced at the stand, noticed the one piece out of place and grinned.

‘Yes Har­ry, and.….?’

‘I see that you have three canes there. Why did you need more than one?’

‘Oh, that’s easy,’ she replied indul­gent­ly. ‘The thin whip­py one was for the young­sters, or a first time. They tell me it stings a great deal, but doesn’t real­ly do much dam­age. The medi­um one, the one which is stick­ing out there,’ she point­ed at the umbrel­la stand and gave Har­ry a know­ing look, ‘was my favourite. Not only does it hurt at the time of the can­ing, but it leaves quite some bruis­ing and the pain can last for upwards of a week.’

‘And that thick one?’ queried Har­ry, seem­ing­ly fas­ci­nat­ed by her explanation.

‘I wasn’t keen on using that one,’ she replied. ‘It was for repeat offend­ers only. Those boys, because it was main­ly the boys, who were sent to me five or more times in a term, had a spe­cial pun­ish­ment reserved for last assem­bly. Some­times there were none, but usu­al­ly one or two. And I used to beat them with the heavy cane in front of the whole school – six of the best. Those pupils had marks which last­ed until the begin­ning of the fol­low­ing term and they found it very dif­fi­cult to sit any­where com­fort­ably dur­ing the school holidays.’

‘Wow’ said Har­ry, ‘that sounds pret­ty tough to me.’

‘Per­haps,’ she replied indul­gent­ly, ‘but, as you said your­self, my school pro­duced some very good results and, on the whole, the chil­dren were in favour of the sys­tem. They knew the lim­its and what to expect if they strayed.’

Har­ry sipped the last drops of his tea, seem­ing­ly hang­ing on her every word.

‘Any­way, I sup­pose I should let you know my price for dec­o­rat­ing this room, but before I do, per­haps I could ask you for a favour? I would cer­tain­ly give you a bit of a dis­count if you agreed.’

‘And what favour might that be Har­ry?’ she enquired, rather mystified.

At that moment the door­bell rang.

‘Oh Har­ry,’ she said as she stood up, ‘would you mind wait­ing a moment? I was expect­ing a visitor.’

‘Not at all Elsa,’ he replied cheer­ful­ly. ‘Go ahead please.’

A few moments lat­er, Miss Sven­son appeared back in the room accom­pa­nied by a younger woman.

‘Har­ry, may I intro­duce Miss Pren­der­gast, a for­mer colleague?’

‘Nice to meet you Miss,’ he replied shak­ing her by the hand.

‘Miss Pren­der­gast was my deputy at Rush­down and a tow­er of strength I must say. She also felt she had to move on for sim­i­lar rea­sons as my own. You see she was also quite a believ­er in prop­er discipline.’

Miss Sven­son poured her guest a cup of tea.

‘Alright Har­ry, now let’s car­ry on. You were about to ask me for a favour I think, so that I could have a dis­count on the paint­ing job.’

‘Well…er.…it’s a bit embar­rass­ing now Miss Pren­der­gast is also here.’

Har­ry thought for a moment.

‘But I sup­pose, because she was with you at the school, it doesn’t make a lot of difference.’

The two women sat patient­ly, wait­ing for this mys­te­ri­ous explanation.

‘I was won­der­ing whether you would give me just a cou­ple of whacks just so I knew what it would have felt like. You see I nev­er got the cane at school, although I am sure I did plen­ty of things to deserve it, and I have always been a bit fascinated.’

Miss Sven­son and Miss Pren­der­gast gave each oth­er know­ing looks.

‘Har­ry, you just don’t under­stand at all do you?’ said Miss Pren­der­gast, sip­ping demure­ly at her tea.

‘A vis­it to Miss Sven­son at our school was some­thing mys­ti­cal, a rit­u­al expe­ri­ence. You had been sent to “see” the Head­mistress and you knew you were in for a telling-off and prob­a­bly a wal­lop­ing. But would it be the slip­per, or the strap or most like­ly one of her canes? But which one, and what­ev­er the imple­ment, how many strokes? These thoughts run through your mind as you wait out­side her door. Then you are called into the study. You try to judge her expres­sion. Is she just stern or does she look real­ly angry? You try to apol­o­gise for your mis­deeds but you are not to be for­giv­en. She gives you a lec­ture then selects a cane. Oh no! That looks like the senior drag­on, her favourite; and they say it hurts like mad. You are told to take down your trousers and touch your toes. You are fright­ened now as you bend over, but you feel a cer­tain absur­di­ty as you see your trousers or shorts round your ankles.

‘Any sense of humour quick­ly evap­o­rates though as you hear foot­steps approach­ing. Next you feel a few light taps against your but­tocks. She is judg­ing the right dis­tance, find­ing her tar­get to get the max­i­mum effect. With the tip of her cane she flips your shirt tail up and out of the way. You realise you have no real pro­tec­tion from your under­wear. Then there is a pause.

‘It seems like a very long pause then.….Swishhh.….…..Crack! The fiery pain is unimag­in­able and shoots simul­ta­ne­ous­ly down your legs and up your spine. You catch your breath and grit your teeth. Anoth­er pause, then those sounds again and you can’t believe the agony can be even more intense. You sti­fle a yell but your body jerks upwards. Can she pos­si­bly hit you any hard­er? How many more strokes? Can you pos­si­bly last the ordeal with­out cry­ing out? You hear her speak.

“Stay down. If you can’t keep still, hold onto your ankles.”

‘You now have to wait for the next one and how long will you have to wait? The antic­i­pa­tion continues.’

As she spoke Miss Pren­der­gast smiled at Har­ry but he had the dis­tinct impres­sion that she was teas­ing him at least a little.

‘So you see Har­ry,’ Miss Sven­son now inter­rupt­ed, ‘a can­ing isn’t just a mat­ter of get­ting hit across the back­side with a stick. How­ev­er, now that you under­stand a lit­tle more about it, I don’t think we would have any objec­tion to shar­ing a taste of the expe­ri­ence with you, would we Miss Pren­der­gast, par­tic­u­lar­ly for old time’s sake?’  

‘Absolute­ly not Miss Sven­son,’ Miss Pren­der­gast replied, once again giv­ing her for­mer col­league a know­ing look.

Har­ry was by now a lit­tle bemused.

‘Well OK then ladies, what do we do now?’

‘Well Har­ry,’ Miss Sven­son con­tin­ued, ‘ as I under­stand it, you are going to give me a quote for the paint­ing of this room and, if I am hap­py with the price, you will have the chance of doing a sub­stan­tial amount more work on the house as I indi­cat­ed. You have said that, if I oblige you with this lit­tle “favour” you will dis­count your price.’

‘That’s it Elsa, I’m sure you’ll like my work.’

‘I also have con­fi­dence in mine,’ she replied with a smile.

‘There are of course a few rules we have to fol­low, those that applied when I ran the school. Miss Pren­der­gast will remain here of course. It was a require­ment of the Local Edu­ca­tion Author­i­ty that at least two mem­bers of staff should be present when­ev­er cor­po­ral pun­ish­ment was to be admin­is­tered. Actu­al­ly Miss Pren­der­gast often used to assist me. Some­times she had to hold the younger ones down and if more than one or two chil­dren required beat­ing, we some­times took turns. Some of the kids were even more fright­ened of her than they were of me. Appar­ent­ly she had a spe­cial flick of the wrist tech­nique. Occa­sion­al­ly if more than six strokes were allot­ted, we worked togeth­er. You see I am left hand­ed where­as she is right, so we could swing from both sides.

‘ Also, for authen­tic­i­ty, there will be no more “Elsa” until we are fin­ished. You will address me as Miss Sven­son and I will use your sur­name. Is that all­right so far?’

‘Yes Els.… , sor­ry, Miss Sven­son,’ said Har­ry begin­ning now to be more than a lit­tle apprehensive.

‘Fine, in which case you should now go out into the hall­way and shut the door. When we are ready, I will call you in for you to give me your price and to receive the pun­ish­ment I decide is appro­pri­ate. There will be no arguments.’

Har­ry turned towards the door.

‘Oh, and one last thing,’ Miss Pren­der­gast joined in again.

‘You will under­stand that out­er cloth­ing had to be removed. The girls took it on their knick­ers and the boys across the seat of their under­pants. So those over­all trousers will have to come off.’

He closed the door behind him. What had he let him­self in for? Those two ladies were evi­dent­ly enjoy­ing his dis­com­fort and, if he stuck by their rules, he might suf­fer a con­sid­er­able amount more dis­com­fort. He glanced at the front door which sud­den­ly looked invit­ing. But he bad­ly need­ed the work. And it was he that made the orig­i­nal sug­ges­tion. Dare he give up now? But those canes looked pret­ty fear­some and he was by no means cer­tain they would stick to the cou­ple of whacks he had sug­gest­ed. And to cap it all, he had left his under­clothes off that morn­ing. He glanced at the front door again, then turned to the one he had just exit­ed. What should he do?

Then, from inside the room, he heard a clear voice, slight­ly accented.

‘You may come in now Thomas.’

I stood ner­vous­ly as I hand­ed Miss Sven­son the let­ter from Miss Pren­der­gast. I knew I had done wrong, how­ev­er I had no idea what was going to hap­pen, I felt very ner­vous as this was my first vis­it to head­mistress at my new school.

Miss Sven­son sat behind her desk and start­ed to read the note in sci­lence and it seemed to take her an age

Miss Sven­son

I am send­ing this boy to you after the fol­low­ing inci­dent that occurred when I had to take the boys P.E. les­son as Mr John­son was unex­pect­ed­ly tak­en ill yesterday.

The les­son had gone fine until I count­ed the boys in and then out of the chang­ing room and I found I was one boy short. I shout­ed in to the chang­ing room as I did not want to enter and find an undressed boy how­ev­er there was no answer. As I lis­tened for a reply I could hear the show­er was still run­ning, think­ing that may be I had mis­count­ed I thought I bet­ter enter the chang­ing rooms, switch the show­er off and lat­er give the class a lec­ture on wast­ing water, what with the recent drought warnings.

I walked into the chang­ing room and round­ed the cor­ner into large com­mu­nal show­er room and to my sur­prise saw a boy through the steam with his back to me. He was right under one of the show­er heads on the far wall, lean­ing with his left arm above his head and his right arm was going up an down.  I inno­cent­ly thought that he had maybe injured his leg dur­ing the les­son and he was try­ing to rub it better.

I called out to the boy and asked if he was alright, how­ev­er with his ears full of water and the noise of the show­er he did not hear me.  I decid­ed to go up behind him and tap him on the shoul­der.  As he spun around and saw me he imme­di­ate­ly stopped his rub­bing how­ev­er it was too late and lets just say it was­n’t water that was drip­ping down my pleat­ed gym skirt onto my bare legs.

Hor­ri­fied I told him to get dressed straight away and to come straight to my office once he had done so, which to be fair to him he did.  He seemed very embar­rassed and remorse­ful when I ques­tioned him on what he thought he was doing, how­ev­er this inci­dent can not go unpun­ished and due to the sever­i­ty of the cir­cum­stances I thought it would be best to involve your expert hand.

There was no porno­graph­ic mate­r­i­al involved so the boy must have been fan­ta­sis­ing about some­thing, the thought of which dis­gusts me as every­time he is in my more usu­al Eng­lish les­son he seems to pay more atten­tion to my legs and breast than Hen­ry V.  Or if I turn my head when I’m writ­ing on the black board I often find him stare­ing straight at my bottom.

I would there­fore like you to pun­ish him for the fol­low­ing 3 reasons:

First­ly for indulging in the plea­sures of the palm.  Sec­ond­ly for sub­ject­ing me to such dis­gust­ing vio­la­tions dur­ing the above inci­dent and my lessons; and third­ly I want you to cane his bare but­tocks until the boy tells you what he was fan­ti­sis­ing about so we can address this abnor­mal behaviour

Kind­est regards

Miss Pren­der­gast

Miss Sven­son looked up at me and a shot of adren­a­line went through my veins as her stern eyes met mine, my head imme­di­ate­ly bowed down and I found myself stare­ing at my shoes.  She said noth­ing and cooly reached for the tele­phone, her slen­der fin­ger tapped the but­tons and sec­onds lat­er she broke the grim science.

Miss Prendergast.…yes I agree this is a severe case and I agree to car­ry out the first part of the pun­ish­ment, how­ev­er you should join me for the last.…ok I’ll see you soon

My mind was rac­ing a two part pun­ish­ment? What was going to happen?

Miss S “Do you know what hap­pens to naughty boys at this school?”

“N..no”

Miss S “No Miss” she shout­ed “and you won’t find the answer on your shoes, look at me when I’m talk­ing to you”

“y…yes miss” I looked up as the dom­i­nant fig­ure behind the desk stood up and looked down on me like I was a worm

Miss S “Naughty, dis­gust­ing, lit­tle boys like you must be pun­ished, and pun­ished sev­er­ly. Here we use cor­po­ral pun­ish­ment, do you know what that is boy?”

“No miss” I replied “my pre­vi­ous school used deten­tion and lines as punishment”

Miss S “Well boy you’ll not want to know, but because you’ve been a dirty, hor­ri­ble lit­tle boy I’m going to tell you and you wont like it even half as much as deti­tion or lines”

Paus­ing for dra­mat­ic effect she then start­ed to speak and as the words came out of her mouth I could not believe what I was hearing

“Cor­po­ral pun­ish­ment is very sim­ple thing boy. Pun­ish­ment of the body for the wrong doings of the mind in the hope that if the mind strays again the pun­ish­ment of the body will be remem­bered to pre­vent future wrong doing.  It’s a short, sharp shock, how­ev­er in this case it may not be so short, but it will be sharp and it will be a shock I can assure you that.  It is a pun­ish­ment and it is meant to and it will hurt! Do you under­stand boy?!!”

I quaked in fear “I, I think so miss”

Miss S “don’t wor­ry too much all will become painful­ly clear all too soon for you my lad” “Now stand in the cor­ner with your nose against the wall, think about what you have done, think about what is going to hap­pen and don’t move a mus­cle until I tell you to address me again”

I shuf­fled across to the cor­ner of the room, press­ing my nose against the cold plas­ter sent a shiv­er through me as guilt and fear reached my brain.

Stand­ing for what seemed like for­ev­er i could hear cup­board doors and desk draws being opened and closed and items being put down on the desk.  My eyes strayed and my head turned a lit­tle as I tried to see what my men­tal tor­men­tor was doing.

“nose in the cor­ner, eyes front, don’t move a muscle”

There was no argument

High heels clicked on the floor and her dread­ed voice called out

“Come to the front of the class and stand here” she point­ed to the floor just to the left  of a chair she had moved to the front of the desk.

She was hold­ing a long, thick two tailed strap

“For plea­sures of the palm you will receive 12 stokes of the tawse on the offend­ing palm, if you ever grab down there again then you will think of this first, hold out your hand, count the strokes and thank me after each stroke”

I held out my quiv­er­ing hand and wait­ed.  She placed the cool heavy leather on my palm, raised her elbow and waited.

Then it came.  A low swish­ing sound, a loud slap and me then blow­ing on my palm, in real pain

“if you don’t get your hand back up, count out loud and thank me now, then it’s extra strokes”

My arm lift­ed slow­ly “one, thank you”

“one, thank you miss” she bellowed

This con­tin­ued until all 12 ter­ri­ble strokes had been car­ried out, my eyes were red with tears

Think­ing this could not get any worse, I then caught a glimpse of her desk and saw a size 12 plim­sole and a yel­low crooked han­dle cane.  My heart sank and my mind was con­fused I thought this was a pun­ish­ment in two parts. My train of thought was soon inter­rupt­ed as the next com­mand was barked out as she sat down on the chair and smoothed her lap

“drop your trousers and bend over my knee”

“w..what miss”

“I will not repeat my self again, drop your trousers and bend over my knee”

I fum­bled with my shorts and obeyed, going over her knee as my shorts dropped around my ankles.  I could feel the warmth of her body against my bare legs and the soft­ness of her hand as it brushed against my but­tocks as she lift­ed the tail of my shirt. Somthing began to stir.

But then it began, the size 12 rain­ing down on my but­tocks relent­less­ly with con­stant ver­bal chas­tise­ment about treat­ing women with respect and to stop being a filthy mind­ed lit­tle boy.  I don’t know how long it went on for but I was sob­bing and beg­ging by the end

I was sent shuf­fling back to the cor­ner, but then strange­ly, to my mind as I thought it was all over, giv­en the instruction

“drop your pants then eyes front, nose to the wall”

I was ashamed red faced and red cheeked and then I heard a knock at the door, I remem­bered the cane and then heard Miss Pren­der­gast’s voice, which after a short whis­pered con­ver­sa­tion with Miss Sven­son barked at me

“front of the class boy and bend over the desk”

I turned around, hands try­ing to cov­er my naked bulge, to looks of dis­gust and dissapointment

“well boy we are just going to have to thrash that out of you, aren’t we” she turned and grinned at Miss Sven­son as I shuf­fled over to the desk and bent over.….….…

I stood ner­vous­ly as I hand­ed Miss Sven­son the let­ter from Miss Pren­der­gast. I knew I had done wrong, how­ev­er I had no idea what was going to hap­pen, I felt very ner­vous as this was my first vis­it to head­mistress at my new school.

Miss Sven­son sat behind her desk and start­ed to read the note in sci­lence and it seemed to take her an age

Miss Sven­son

I am send­ing this boy to you after the fol­low­ing inci­dent that occurred when I had to take the boys P.E. les­son as Mr John­son was unex­pect­ed­ly tak­en ill yesterday.

The les­son had gone fine until I count­ed the boys in and then out of the chang­ing room and I found I was one boy short. I shout­ed in to the chang­ing room as I did not want to enter and find an undressed boy how­ev­er there was no answer. As I lis­tened for a reply I could hear the show­er was still run­ning, think­ing that may be I had mis­count­ed I thought I bet­ter enter the chang­ing rooms, switch the show­er off and lat­er give the class a lec­ture on wast­ing water, what with the recent drought warnings.

I walked into the chang­ing room and round­ed the cor­ner into large com­mu­nal show­er room and to my sur­prise saw a boy through the steam with his back to me. He was right under one of the show­er heads on the far wall, lean­ing with his left arm above his head and his right arm was going up an down.  I inno­cent­ly thought that he had maybe injured his leg dur­ing the les­son and he was try­ing to rub it better.

I called out to the boy and asked if he was alright, how­ev­er with his ears full of water and the noise of the show­er he did not hear me.  I decid­ed to go up behind him and tap him on the shoul­der.  As he spun around and saw me he imme­di­ate­ly stopped his rub­bing how­ev­er it was too late and lets just say it was­n’t water that was drip­ping down my pleat­ed gym skirt onto my bare legs.

Hor­ri­fied I told him to get dressed straight away and to come straight to my office once he had done so, which to be fair to him he did.  He seemed very embar­rassed and remorse­ful when I ques­tioned him on what he thought he was doing, how­ev­er this inci­dent can not go unpun­ished and due to the sever­i­ty of the cir­cum­stances I thought it would be best to involve your expert hand.

There was no porno­graph­ic mate­r­i­al involved so the boy must have been fan­ta­sis­ing about some­thing, the thought of which dis­gusts me as every­time he is in my more usu­al Eng­lish les­son he seems to pay more atten­tion to my legs and breast than Hen­ry V.  Or if I turn my head when I’m writ­ing on the black board I often find him stare­ing straight at my bottom.

I would there­fore like you to pun­ish him for the fol­low­ing 3 reasons:

First­ly for indulging in the plea­sures of the palm.  Sec­ond­ly for sub­ject­ing me to such dis­gust­ing vio­la­tions dur­ing the above inci­dent and my lessons; and third­ly I want you to cane his bare but­tocks until the boy tells you what he was fan­ti­sis­ing about so we can address this abnor­mal behaviour

Kind­est regards

Miss Pren­der­gast

Miss Sven­son looked up at me and a shot of adren­a­line went through my veins as her stern eyes met mine, my head imme­di­ate­ly bowed down and I found myself stare­ing at my shoes.  She said noth­ing and cooly reached for the tele­phone, her slen­der fin­ger tapped the but­tons and sec­onds lat­er she broke the grim science.

Miss Prendergast.…yes I agree this is a severe case and I agree to car­ry out the first part of the pun­ish­ment, how­ev­er you should join me for the last.…ok I’ll see you soon

My mind was rac­ing a two part pun­ish­ment? What was going to happen?

Miss S “Do you know what hap­pens to naughty boys at this school?”

“N..no”

Miss S “No Miss” she shout­ed “and you won’t find the answer on your shoes, look at me when I’m talk­ing to you”

“y…yes miss” I looked up as the dom­i­nant fig­ure behind the desk stood up and looked down on me like I was a worm

Miss S “Naughty, dis­gust­ing, lit­tle boys like you must be pun­ished, and pun­ished sev­er­ly. Here we use cor­po­ral pun­ish­ment, do you know what that is boy?”

“No miss” I replied “my pre­vi­ous school used deten­tion and lines as punishment”

Miss S “Well boy you’ll not want to know, but because you’ve been a dirty, hor­ri­ble lit­tle boy I’m going to tell you and you wont like it even half as much as deti­tion or lines”

Paus­ing for dra­mat­ic effect she then start­ed to speak and as the words came out of her mouth I could not believe what I was hearing

“Cor­po­ral pun­ish­ment is very sim­ple thing boy. Pun­ish­ment of the body for the wrong doings of the mind in the hope that if the mind strays again the pun­ish­ment of the body will be remem­bered to pre­vent future wrong doing.  It’s a short, sharp shock, how­ev­er in this case it may not be so short, but it will be sharp and it will be a shock I can assure you that.  It is a pun­ish­ment and it is meant to and it will hurt! Do you under­stand boy?!!”

I quaked in fear “I, I think so miss”

Miss S “don’t wor­ry too much all will become painful­ly clear all too soon for you my lad” “Now stand in the cor­ner with your nose against the wall, think about what you have done, think about what is going to hap­pen and don’t move a mus­cle until I tell you to address me again”

I shuf­fled across to the cor­ner of the room, press­ing my nose against the cold plas­ter sent a shiv­er through me as guilt and fear reached my brain.

Stand­ing for what seemed like for­ev­er i could hear cup­board doors and desk draws being opened and closed and items being put down on the desk.  My eyes strayed and my head turned a lit­tle as I tried to see what my men­tal tor­men­tor was doing.

“nose in the cor­ner, eyes front, don’t move a muscle”

There was no argument

High heels clicked on the floor and her dread­ed voice called out

“Come to the front of the class and stand here” she point­ed to the floor just to the left  of a chair she had moved to the front of the desk.

She was hold­ing a long, thick two tailed strap

“For plea­sures of the palm you will receive 12 stokes of the tawse on the offend­ing palm, if you ever grab down there again then you will think of this first, hold out your hand, count the strokes and thank me after each stroke”

I held out my quiv­er­ing hand and wait­ed.  She placed the cool heavy leather on my palm, raised her elbow and waited.

Then it came.  A low swish­ing sound, a loud slap and me then blow­ing on my palm, in real pain

“if you don’t get your hand back up, count out loud and thank me now, then it’s extra strokes”

My arm lift­ed slow­ly “one, thank you”

“one, thank you miss” she bellowed

This con­tin­ued until all 12 ter­ri­ble strokes had been car­ried out, my eyes were red with tears

Think­ing this could not get any worse, I then caught a glimpse of her desk and saw a size 12 plim­sole and a yel­low crooked han­dle cane.  My heart sank and my mind was con­fused I thought this was a pun­ish­ment in two parts. My train of thought was soon inter­rupt­ed as the next com­mand was barked out as she sat down on the chair and smoothed her lap

“drop your trousers and bend over my knee”

“w..what miss”

“I will not repeat my self again, drop your trousers and bend over my knee”

I fum­bled with my shorts and obeyed, going over her knee as my shorts dropped around my ankles.  I could feel the warmth of her body against my bare legs and the soft­ness of her hand as it brushed against my but­tocks as she lift­ed the tail of my shirt. Somthing began to stir.

But then it began, the size 12 rain­ing down on my but­tocks relent­less­ly with con­stant ver­bal chas­tise­ment about treat­ing women with respect and to stop being a filthy mind­ed lit­tle boy.  I don’t know how long it went on for but I was sob­bing and beg­ging by the end

I was sent shuf­fling back to the cor­ner, but then strange­ly, to my mind as I thought it was all over, giv­en the instruction

“drop your pants then eyes front, nose to the wall”

I was ashamed red faced and red cheeked and then I heard a knock at the door, I remem­bered the cane and then heard Miss Pren­der­gast’s voice, which after a short whis­pered con­ver­sa­tion with Miss Sven­son barked at me

“front of the class boy and bend over the desk”

I turned around, hands try­ing to cov­er my naked bulge, to looks of dis­gust and dissapointment

“well boy we are just going to have to thrash that out of you, aren’t we” she turned and grinned at Miss Sven­son as I shuf­fled over to the desk and bent over.….….…

I was on my way to Miss Sven­son because I felt I need­ed to be remind­ed of my man­ners in pub­lic. I have this prob­lem that I love to look up ladies’ skirts and feast my eyes on their stock­ing tops and their thighs and pants (what colour are they?). I do not blame myself for this desire in itself; after all it’s nat­ur­al, isn’t it? The race would not sur­vive if men did not lust after women; and that par­tic­u­lar sight is a big turn on.

But, of course, I realise that women dis­like it as there is so much more that one ought to con­sid­er, and cher­ish, in a woman’s per­son­al­i­ty than mere­ly lust­ing after her per­son. But men are inher­ent­ly crude; well, I am. This is why I go to Miss Sven­son. I hope her atten­tion to my bare bot­tom will remind me of my duty to keep my eyes to myself. She is the best, the set­ting is styl­ish, the music clas­si­cal and soft.

So there I was on the train, sit­ting on the seats that go along the length of the train, not across. This is a dan­ger­ous posi­tion for me as girls oppo­site with very short skirts are not always care­ful and I get a view I ought not to seek or to have. The train was pret­ty emp­ty; it was near noon on a warm day.  Oppo­site me sat a lady, smart­ly dressed in styl­ish suit, jack­et and match­ing skirt to the knee; not a pen­cil skirt but one of those pleat­ed ones – it was very pret­ty and to my taste.

She gath­ered togeth­er her things, a hand­bag and a shop­ping bag, and was obvi­ous­ly going to get off at the next stop as was I. I do not know exact­ly what hap­pened but she stum­bled as she was stand­ing up. Per­haps her shoe caught some­thing or she tilt­ed her ankle. Any­way, she fell to her knees and her skirt caught the seat’s arm­rest and was pulled up, expos­ing her thighs and her black stock­ings and her briefs – very brief they were too. As I was also get­ting up at the same time I was quite close to her and of course could do noth­ing but try to catch her and help her up. I caught her elbow with one hand and her waist with the oth­er and lift­ed her to her feet. She looked up at me with grat­i­tude in her eyes but then I looked at her legs, which are very shape­ly, the stock­ing tops, the white thighs and her pink briefs. I longed to kiss those thighs. I looked for a sec­ond too long and my feel­ings of pure lust may have shown on my face. Her expres­sion became very severe as I saw when I glanced back at her eyes. All con­fu­sion, I hasti­ly tried to unhitch her skirt and pull it down but she pushed me away, smooth­ing her­self down with an ele­gant sweep of her hand. She had, I noticed, a very cur­va­ceous figure.

“I’m so sor­ry,” I said but she turned away and walked down the car­riage and out of the door as soon as the train stopped. I fol­lowed but not close­ly as I did not want to fright­en her. She might have thought me a stalk­er or some­thing. I lost sight of her and put the episode from my mind. I was too ear­ly for my appoint­ment, so stopped and had a small espres­so to kill some time and get into a prop­er frame of mind for my inter­view with Miss Svenson.

I stood in front of Miss Svenson’s door and took a deep breath, psych­ing myself up for what was to come. No doubt Miss Sven­son was going to be very severe with me as I did not seem to learn my les­son for very long. It was only a short time since I had been to her with the same prob­lem. I rang. The door opened noise­less­ly and Miss motioned me in with a sharp glance of her eyes. “Go through,” she said in a strict tone. I did so and had the shock of my life for stand­ing at the fur­ther wall was the lady from the train.

“Miss Pren­der­gast is here to observe pro­ceed­ings” said Miss Sven­son fol­low­ing me into the room. She saw us star­ing at each oth­er and realised we were acquaint­ed in some way.

“This is the man on the train I was telling you about,” said Miss Pren­der­gast. “The one who had the imper­ti­nence to gaze at my under­wear when it was acci­den­tal­ly exposed. I am extreme­ly glad that there was no one else on the train who saw. I must say though, I shall do more than mere­ly observe – oh yes, a lot more! When you have fin­ished with him I’ll teach him to lust after me.” The room swayed a lit­tle as I realised what I was in for.

“Undress as usu­al,” com­mand­ed Miss Sven­son. “I shall deal with you first. Then Miss Pren­der­gast will have her turn at civil­is­ing you. Stand in the cor­ner when you are ready.” She bus­ied her­self col­lect­ing the instru­ments she need­ed for the task, a range of straps and pad­dles. I shiv­ered in antic­i­pa­tion, undressed and went to the corner.

The ses­sion with Miss Sven­son went as usu­al, start­ing with four dozen hand spanks while I was over her knee and con­tin­u­ing with the var­i­ous imple­ments includ­ing her favourite split strap, the tawse, which has been men­tioned in her blog. In between each of the instru­ments, the pad­dles etc, came more OTK hand spank­ing. Each spanker was com­bined with a dif­fer­ent stance; some­times I was bent over a chair, some­times I had to stand up straight. Even this thrash­ing, how­ev­er, did not stop me admir­ing Miss Prendergast’s fig­ure and espe­cial­ly her legs, long and ele­gant. In between each ses­sion I had the oppor­tu­ni­ty to look at her, side­ways out of low­ered eyes of course. If she had seen me I shud­der to think what she would have done. My but­tocks would have been pur­ple not just red.

It all cul­mi­nat­ed in a dozen strokes of the cane. I did notice, how­ev­er, that the sever­i­ty of all the blows, by what­ev­er means, had increased a lot from pre­vi­ous appoint­ments. The two ladies had obvi­ous­ly been dis­cussing my behav­iour and grave­ly dis­ap­proved of it.

Indeed, Miss Pren­der­gast inter­ject­ed her opin­ions as to how hard each blow should be and exact­ly where on my bot­tom. She sat oppo­site us while I was OTK and could see areas that were not as red as they might be. Final­ly, in order to try to obtain a breather, I apol­o­gised as abject­ly as I could to both, Miss Pren­der­gast for not avert­ing my gaze from her beau­ty while we were in the train and Miss Sven­son for not learn­ing my les­son quick­ly. I hoped they would give me five min­utes to recov­er a bit. They did not.

As soon as Miss Sven­son had fin­ished the last, hard­est stroke Miss Pren­der­gast poured some sooth­ing oil over my bot­tom and rubbed it in. She then took up anoth­er cane, a more severe one. “As you are in the prop­er posi­tion over that sofa arm for a can­ing I’ll start with that,” she said, “I may give you more strokes at the end.” She suit­ed the action to the word and gave me six more at what was obvi­ous­ly her max­i­mum strength. Of course, I had to thank her for each stroke and count them, which I took care to do as I did not want to increase the length of the pun­ish­ment at that point. She also liked me to beg for the next stroke and again I oblig­ed, although I had to do so with a qua­ver in my voice as I strug­gled to absorb the pain. Striv­ing though I was to com­ply with her orders and accept the much deserved pun­ish­ment, I had to admire the sym­me­try of her pro­ce­dure. She reversed the order of the instru­ments that Miss Sven­son used; the tawse, a cou­ple of pad­dles and a strap, all used just as strong­ly and putting me in the same pos­ture. She did not, how­ev­er, have me over her knee for hand spank­ing between each instru­ment. It was clear that the last thing was to be the OTK spank. I looked at her arms and hands; the arms were well mus­cled as I realised also from my sting­ing bot­tom, and her hands were small. This meant the impact area on my but­tocks would be small and so the smack more con­cen­trat­ed, the pain increased. OTK spank­ing is both my best and worst thing. I love the humil­i­ty, and the inti­ma­cy, of the posi­tion but the agony can be worse. I feared it would be this time. “OTK now,” she said, “I’ll give you four dozen on each buttock.”

The trou­ble was as Miss Pren­der­gast sat on the upright chair she lift­ed her skirt to her waist and then bade me bend over her knee. It wasn’t fair.

 

Miss Sven­son’s spank­ing sto­ry competition!

This is how it works you must get cre­ative and write a spank­ing sto­ry which includes Miss Sven­son and with a new twist also Miss pren­der­gast. It obvi­ous­ly must be your own work and you must agree to have it pub­lished on my web­site. If you wish you can include a draw­ing or a pho­to but it must be your own copy right. The best sto­ry will win a free 40 min­utes spank­ing ses­sion with two strict ladies. Please send your sto­ry on a word doc­u­ment marked sto­ry com­pe­ti­tion to me and we (Miss Pren­der­gast and I) will pick the lucky winner.Deadline is 1st of June but I will start pub­lish­ing sto­ries as soon as I get them.

Come on boys and girls…what are you wait­ing for this is your chance to show us how good you are!