King­sham Road ran along the front perime­ter of the High School for Boys.   To the left hand side of the school a gat­ed road led to the play­ground and a car park used by the teach­ing staff.   The main door of the school was reached through a nar­row­er gate lead­ing onto a grav­el path between the front lawns of the school.   Almost nobody oth­er than the head mis­tress, Miss Elsa Sven­son, came into the school that way.

 

The two win­dows of Miss Sven­son’s spa­cious study looked out across the front lawns, as did the adja­cent sin­gle win­dow of the small­er office of Miss Pren­der­gast, the school sec­re­tary. The two rooms were con­nect­ed inter­nal­ly by a strange arrange­ment of back-to-back doors that opened out­wards so that Miss Sven­son could bolt her door to be assured of privacy.

 

It was ten to four and the school day was end­ing, a boy stood wait­ing out­side the exte­ri­or door to the headmistress’s study. Miss Sven­son was out but Miss Pren­der­gast was in her office study­ing a file stu­dious­ly and inward­ly feel­ing a sense of keen antic­i­pa­tion. As request­ed, she had just read­ied the head mistress’s study for a “dis­ci­pli­nary inter­view” and assumed that the boy stand­ing in the cor­ri­dor was the object of these preparations.

 

The out­come of these inter­views was not cer­tain because Miss Sven­son had a capri­cious mind and could be unex­pect­ed­ly mer­ci­ful, but more often than not they did end with a caning.

 

Miss Pren­der­gast had put the boy’s per­son­al file on Miss Sven­son’s desk and pulled out the low junior school desk that was nor­mal­ly parked against a wall and placed it under the clock a pace away from the wall.   Many boys had turned to face that clock, then been instruct­ed to bend over the desk and grip its back legs.

 

Next had come the task she enjoyed the most, unlock­ing the cor­ner cup­board and tak­ing out the cane and pun­ish­ment book.   She had care­ful­ly placed the pun­ish­ment book on Miss Sven­son’s desk open at the most recent page and could­n’t help her­self read­ing the most recent entries: date, name, offence, num­ber of strokes admin­is­tered and the ini­tials of the head­mistress and a wit­ness to the pun­ish­ment.   She had stood the cane in its place out of sight by the book­case.   Last of all she had checked that there was ink in Miss Svenson’s foun­tain pen and placed the along the spine of the open pun­ish­ment book so that it was to hand if needed.

 

Miss Pren­der­gast had then gone back to her office through the back-to-back doors care­ful­ly clos­ing the study door but leav­ing her own door ajar so that she had the best chance of hear­ing what­ev­er happened.

 

After five min­utes the sound of Miss Svenson’s foot­steps could be heard crunch­ing on the grav­el foot­path, the front door opened and closed.   There was a brief con­ver­sa­tion in the cor­ri­dor and the boy went into the study with Miss Sven­son.   Miss Pren­der­gast sat strain­ing to hear but she could not make out what was being said.   She was tak­en by sur­prise when the back-to-back doors were sud­den­ly opened and Miss Sven­son entered her office.

 

“Miss Pren­der­gast, may I ask a favour of you.   I am afraid that I need to cane a boy and unfor­tu­nate­ly the boy’s form mas­ter is not avail­able to wit­ness the pun­ish­ment.   I won­der if you would be will­ing to stand in?   It’s quite sim­ple you sim­ply observe to ensure that the pun­ish­ment is record­ed accu­rate­ly in the pun­ish­ment book –but do say “no” if it makes you feel uncom­fort­able.   Miss Pren­der­gast said “yes” and wor­ried that she might have said it a lit­tle too enthusiastically.

 

Miss Pren­der­gast fol­lowed the head­mistress into the study where the boy was wait­ing ner­vous­ly.   Miss Sven­son picked up the cane, faced the boy and flexed it thought­ful­ly, “You know why exact­ly why I am going to cane you.   It would have six strokes but you did at least own up, so your pun­ish­ment is four strokes.   I am sure that you don’t think your­self lucky but you ought to!”.   Miss Pren­der­gast watched Miss Sven­son and the boy with rapt fas­ci­na­tion.   “Face the clock and bend over the desk”.  The boy obeyed.

 

Miss Pren­der­gast heard the swish of the cane and was sur­prised by how loud was the sound of its impact on the boy’s tight­ly stretched trousers.   In turn, the boy appeared to be sur­prised by how much the impact hurt; his back arched and he hung on to the legs of the desk.   Miss Sven­son pro­ceed­ed with a steady rhythm –she did not make the boy wait undu­ly between strokes but nei­ther was she hur­ried.   Each stroke was giv­en with full mea­sure.   The boy cow­ered before the sec­ond and third strokes but the desk held him in place.   After the third stroke he seemed relieved that the end was in sight and tried to com­pose him­self by stretch­ing brave­ly over the desk.   The fourth stroke clear­ly hurt even more than those that pre­ced­ed it and he yelped loudly.

 

Miss Sven­son put her hand on the small of the boy’s back and said “Stay down”, then she talked to the boy by turns chid­ing him for his bad behav­iour and then telling him that she val­ued his hon­esty in own­ing up and that he had tak­en his pun­ish­ment well.   When she allowed him to stand up his eyes were red but he had regained his com­po­sure.   He was sent to wash his face and then go home.

 

“Now Miss Pren­der­gast, let’s make an entry in the pun­ish­ment book, please would you wit­ness that four strokes were giv­en; I hope that you didn’t find that too dis­turb­ing.   Most boys’ behav­iour is improved by a few sharp taps on the bot­tom with the cane”.   As Miss Pren­der­gast wrote her ini­tials in the book using Miss Svenson’s foun­tain pen, she thought to her­self that she had nev­er had a bet­ter day at work and was flushed with plea­sure as she returned to her office.

 

There was a spring in her step as she locked her office door and walked to the bus stop to catch the bus home.   Sit­ting upstairs on the bus, the details of the can­ing ran through Miss Prendergast’s mind like scenes from a favourite movie.

Ken had met Minx­ie in a chat room.  She was keen to join Ken and he arranged to take her to see Miss Sven­son and Miss P.  They met at Lon­don Bridge and Ken was delight­ed to spy a school­girl look under Minx­ie’s coat.

There was whis­pered chat about what might hap­pen, some smil­ing and even laughing.

On arrival Miss P told both to remove shoes and accom­pa­ny her to the study.  Ken was a reg­u­lar vis­i­tor but Minx­ie new to it all.  Miss S knew Ken had as usu­al been exhibit­ing him­self on the Inter­net and deserved a harsh reminder.  His behav­ior in the Lap Danc­ing Club earned him severe pun­ish­ment before, but Miss S and Miss P had become aware he had not stayed away since his last vis­it to the Study.

With­out much fuss Miss S told Ken to drop his trousers and get over her knee. A severe spank­ing ensued with his under­pants being peeled down and a flur­ry of slip­per and hair­brush spanks applied.

All the time Minx­ie and Miss P looked on and mur­mured in admi­ra­tion at Miss S’s accu­ra­cy and neat­ness-togeth­er with their amuse­ment at Ken’s embar­rass­ment and red bot­tom cheeks.

After what seemed a long time to Ken, Miss S sent him to the corner.

Then Minx­ie was ush­ered in her short skirt to go over Miss S’s lap.  She obeyed and her skirt went up.  Miss S began a slow method­i­cal hand spank­ing, dur­ing which she removed the sen­si­ble knick­ers Minx­ie had been wearing.

Miss P looked on and thought what a love­ly female bot­tom it was under the spanks.  Ken looked from his cor­ner and became huge­ly excit­ed.  His flam­ing cheeks for­got­ten as he saw Minx­ie’s bot­tom so pret­ty, full and red.

Inad­ver­tent­ly his hand wan­dered to release his erec­tion from his under­pants and he was unable to resist a slow stroke or two to con­firm his excite­ment.  Miss P noticed and began to stare, Miss S was spank­ing well but saw Miss P stare at Ken form an angle clear­ly mak­ing Ken’s naked erec­tion visible.

The atmos­phere in the room changed.

“Get up Minx­ie.  Go to the wall.  Away from naughty Ken who needs some sharp cor­rec­tion this instant.  You Miss P wipe the smirk off your face, avert your eyes and begin to savour — or fear!! what I will do to you next.

Minx­ie was in tears, her bot­tom hav­ing evad­ed spanks for many years.

Ken was dry mouthed and dev­as­tat­ed he had been “caught” not only by Miss P but also more sig­nif­i­cant­ly by Miss S.

Miss P was hor­ri­fied.  Her long black skirt was off and her slen­der fig­ure ready for Miss S to attend to.

A heavy tawse, cane (favoured drag­on type) and severe Jokari Bat would be applied to Ken deter­mined MIss S.

Minx­ie had alleged­ly craved the cane.  A more slen­der school cane would do for her.

Miss P, well, she was still show­ing stripes from a recent can­ing applied for tar­di­ness.  Miss S decid­ed the plas­tic brush with the ven­omous sting would do for her.

Miss S decid­ed she was tir­ing and so for some enter­tain­ment she’d have Minx­ie and Miss P deal with Ken first (Miss S would of course fin­ish to ensure severity)

Miss P would help Ken deal with Minxie.

Ken and Minx­ie would start on Miss P.

 

Miss S watched with delight as each “Spanker” applied strokes they knew would be com­ing back to them.  The ses­sion ran on and on.  The spanks were applied in short bursts until Miss S was con­vinced all the recip­i­ents were red enough.

 

The finale was Ken’s fullest pun­ish­ment when that dread­ed Jokari Bat cov­ered all the ear­li­er deliv­er­ies.  The bat in the hand of Miss S left a last­ing impression.

 

As Miss P blushed and re dressed, Ken and Minx­ie were allowed moments to dress and gath­er them­selves.  The train jour­ney to Lon­don Bridge was amus­ing as nei­ther Ken nor Minx­ie would sit despite numer­ous emp­ty seats.

 

They were both embar­rassed that the oth­er had watched — and equal­ly fas­ci­nat­ed by hav­ing watched.

As they part­ed com­pa­ny they decid­ed anoth­er vis­it would need to be some weeks away as they need­ed time.

 

Back­ground

By order of the chair­man of Governors

It has come to my notice that a large amount of cor­po­ral pun­ish­ment is being car­ried out result­ing in wast­ed time. I seek to reduce this. As from today par­ents are expect­ed to ensure that their chil­dren are impec­ca­bly behaved at all times. Should it be nec­es­sary for a child to be spanked or caned the respon­si­ble par­ent involved will be expect­ed to sub­mit to a bare bot­tom can­ing. It is assumed that as  par­ents have cho­sen to send their child to this school that their per­mis­sion is tak­en for grant­ed. Par­ents unhap­py with this are of course free to with­draw their child from the school.

1 Octo­ber 1956

——————————————————-

Miss Sven­son was sit­ting in her office towards the end of the first week. She was not sure wether the new edict would work espe­cial­ly in the long term but had been pres­sured to give it a term tri­al and cer­tain­ly after the first week there has been a reduc­tion (actu­al­ly to nil) of demand for cor­po­ral pun­ish­ment although she was sure that would not con­tin­ue for long. Boys and it is usu­al­ly boys can only keep up good behav­iour for a short time regard­less of the intim­i­da­tion that their par­ents may have used.

Sud­den­ly Miss Sven­son became aware of a ker­fuf­fle and Mrs White a white haired teacher in her 50s who had been a loy­al col­league for a num­ber of years knocked on her door and entered with her hand attached to young Jonathan Pren­der­gast’s ear. Jonathan was 11 years old and had been in the school for 5  years since his moth­er had start­ed teach­ing there. He had been in the school long enough to know the rules.

Mrs White had caught him red-hand­ed watch­ing her and oth­er girls get­ting changed and had also been caught using a screw­driv­er to make peep holes larg­er. This is the kind of behav­iour which ado­les­cent boys find extreme­ly fun­ny but every­body else is dis­gust­ed by it in par­tic­u­lar the peo­ple whose pri­va­cy has been vio­lat­ed. This is not the first time that boys have been caught watch­ing staff or girl pupils get­ting changed but Miss Sven­son vowed it would be the last.

Mrs White let go of Jonathan’s ear and Miss Sven­son asked him if what had been said was true – The gig­gles from Jonathan demon­strat­ed that it was and she informed him that he was to receive an exem­plary pun­ish­ment. Jonathan who by then had stopped smirk­ing and realised the trou­ble he was in was asked to wait out­side the time was 2pm and an after noon assem­bly was due in one hour.

Mrs Sven­son quick­ly sum­moned Miss Pren­der­gast to her office. Brush­ing past her son Jonathan, Miss Pren­der­gast was appre­hen­sive about what had hap­penned and why her son Jonathan was wait­ing out­side the office. On enter­ing Mrs Sven­son­s’s office Miss Pren­der­gast was informed about what her son Jonathan had done, and his reac­tion when caught and his sub­se­quent reac­tion which had sat­is­fied Miss Sven­son that he had in fact com­mit­ted these acts.

Miss Pren­der­gast had dou­ble loy­al­ties. As a loy­al col­league of both Miss  Sven­son and Mrs White she would have been equal­ly dis­gust­ed by the actions of her son but she also want­ed to be reas­sured that her son Jonathan had in fact done this.  She opened the door and asked her son and his reac­tion con­vinced his moth­er that this had tak­en place exact­ly as her col­leagues had said.

Miss Sven­son out­lined the pun­ish­ment she had in mind which was a very sound bare bot­tom spank­ing in front of the whole school for about 10 min­utes. She would use her hand and if nec­es­sary a very stur­dy wood­en hair­brush Miss Sven­son had always been reluc­tant to pun­ish in pub­lic as she felt that the mys­tique would go but these was an over rid­ing need here to set an exam­ple to all the boys what would hap­pen if they did some­thing sim­i­lar and there­fore this first part of the pun­ish­ment would take place in assem­bly with­in the next half hour.    After assem­bly all pupils and staff were to be asked to leave the school quick­ly. Teach­ing staff would be on hand to ensure that hap­pened. The sec­ond part of the pun­ish­ment would be 24 strokes of the horse­whip which had been acquired from near­by stables.

At that point Miss Sven­son remind­ed Miss Pren­der­gast who had realised the trou­ble  she her­self was in that she had no option but to car­ry out a can­ing on Miss Pren­der­gast her­self. Miss Sven­son reit­er­at­ed that she did not enjoy can­ing adults but this was regret­tably nec­es­sary and that the new edict from the Gov­er­nors would mean this would hap­pen much more often — she was sad­dened that her first vic­tim was a respect­ed col­league. She said that the can­ing would be car­ried out at 630pm to allow every­one to leave the build­ing and accord Miss Sven­son and Miss Pren­der­gast some privacy.

Miss Sven­son decid­ed that both the sec­ond part of Jonathan’s pun­ish­ment and also the can­ing of Miss Pren­der­gast would take place in the gym over the vault­ing horse. Bend­ing some­one over the vault­ing horse is ide­al for sub­stan­tial pun­ish­ments as it pre­vents the span­kee from try­ing to put hands in the way and allows total control.

Miss Pren­der­gast went red when told this and the real­i­sa­tion came to her what would hap­pen  lat­er that day. Miss Sven­son as the pro­fes­sion­al she is was kind and gen­tle to her col­league but stressed the the gov­er­nors had sim­ply giv­en her no option. The time was com­ing for assem­bly. Miss Sven­son put on her gown and entered the the school hall where 300 pupils were gath­ered in the front row were Mrs White and 5 girls who had been watched undress­ing and who were all feel­ing some­what ner­vous at what was about to happen.

A hard backed wood­en chair had been placed in the cen­tre of the stage. Miss Sven­son spoke for 2 min­utes and said that she would not allow boys to inter­fere with the pri­va­cy of girls or staff by watch­ing then get changed. The first part of Jonathan’s pun­ish­ment was there­fore being done in front of the whole school and the sec­ond would take place lat­er that after­noon. Miss Sven­son remind­ed every­one that they must leave imme­di­ate­ly after­wards know­ing that they would talk of lit­tle else.

As Miss Sven­son sat on the hard backed chair — she called for Jonathan to be bought out. Jonathan was dressed in grey trousers and was sum­mar­i­ly ordered to remove them and the white under­pants he was wear­ing  and place him­self over Miss Sven­son’s knee. As he did so he looked round and saw 300 peo­ple gath­ered to watch what would be his first pub­lic spank­ing. His brava­do and cock­i­ness had gone – It was 300pm.

The sound of hand, smack­ing against Jonathan’s bare bot­tom boomed for the next five min­utes punc­tu­at­ed by Ooohs- Aahs and moans as well as occa­sion­al gasps from the watch­ing stu­dents. Yes Jonathan deserved every­thing he was get­ting- every­one par­tic­u­lar­ly the boys, made a men­tal note to behave them­selves as intend­ed by Miss Svenson .

After 5 min­utes Miss Sven­son stopped – her hand was becom­ing a lit­tle ten­der and she felt unable to do Jonathan’s bot­tom jus­tice so asked a col­league to give her the hair­brush which was on an adja­cent table for just such an even­tu­al­i­ty. Jonathan, whose bot­tom had gone from white to pink to pil­lar box red and was about to go crim­son gulped as the first sounds of the hair­brush rever­brat­ed round the school hall. The reac­tion from the girls and Mrs White in the front row was one of both stunned silence and an inner sat­is­fac­tion of jus­tice being done. By the time the sec­ond lot of 5 min­utes had gone Jonathan’s bot­tom had gone crim­son. Miss Sven­son stopped and dis­missed every­one telling them not to linger and to go home imme­di­ate­ly. The chat­ter was one of dis­be­lief and shock- this  would indeed be a deter­rent to most if not all boys in the school.

Miss Sven­son was approached by Miss Pren­der­gast who had obvi­ous­ly realised as the after­noon went on what was wait­ing for her. She sug­gest­ed that she be allowed to inflict part of the remain­ing pun­ish­ment. Miss Sven­son agreed after jok­ing not to go easy on him and sug­gest­ed that she give the first 6. The glance from Miss Pren­der­gast indi­cat­ed that if any­thing the reverse was likely.

By 430 with the school cleared Mrs White togeth­er with Miss Sven­son Miss Pren­der­gast and Jonathan made their way to the gym where the vault­ing horse had been promi­nent­ly placed. Mrs White was there to help Jonathan into posi­tion and to ensure he remained in that posi­tion for the dura­tion of the punishment.

Jonathan was asked to remove his trousers and under­wear and was then helped over the vault­ing horse. His feet one side his hands the oth­er he could do lit­tle but accept the 24 strokes com­ing his way. His bare bot­tom did  recov­er a lit­tle in the hour since the pre­vi­ous hair brush pound­ing and the crim­son had light­ened a lit­tle to a deep red.- there were also notable white blotch­es which would not remain white for long. The sit-spot just under­neath the but­tocks had hard­ly been touched and would be the con­cen­tra­tion of at least 18 of the strokes to come. Miss Sven­son asked Mrs White to adjust her posi­tion by hold­ing Jonathans hands and tak­ing a step back which had the result of mov­ing the tar­get bot­tom upwards.

With the desired posi­tion hav­ing been achieved Miss Sven­son hand­ed the horse­whip to Miss Pren­der­gast who said to her son that he will remem­ber this thrash­ing for the rest of his life and let rip right in the cen­tre of his but­tocks with a force which con­tra­dict­ed her demure frame. The sec­ond and third strokes were sim­i­lar­ly deliv­ered just above and below the first and the final three of her allot­ted six seered into the white blotch­es turn­ing them a deep red.

Miss Sven­son decid­ed that a minute break was appro­pri­ate for all con­cerned the ini­tial 6 had been giv­en with quite some force and it was impor­tant to ensure Jonathan’s well being.  Miss Sven­son then took up  the horse­whip and flexed it through the air a cou­ple of times to get its mea­sure  – she had used the instru­ment before but not for some time.

Miss Swen­son asked Mrs White to take a step back to ensure that the sit spot was ful­ly acces­si­ble and let rip first on the left side and then on the right. She then stopped to allow the strokes inflict­ed to reg­is­ter and the antic­i­pa­tion of the 12 to come to heighten.

Mrs White checked on Jonathan to ensure he was ok and apart from a few groans he  seemed fine. It was decid­ed that the remain­ing strokes could be giv­en and these were despatched with a short break after the first 6. The scar­ring on the sit spot ensured that it would be a few days before Jonathan could sit comfortably.

Miss Pren­der­gast had already made arrange­ments for a friend to take Jonathan home as she knew that she her­self would hard­ly be able to do this or indeed com­fort him later.

Miss Sven­son con­firmed to Mrs White  that as Jonathan’s moth­er Miss Pren­der­gast was short­ly to be very sound­ly caned by her and invit­ed her to assist but to leave imme­di­ate­ly after the last stroke and Miss Pren­der­gast had been helped from the vault­ing horse. Mrs White who had of course had her per­son­al space vio­lat­ed by Jonathan read­i­ly agreed.

Miss Sven­son took a for­mi­da­ble senior cane and walked to the gym. Miss Pren­der­gast was already there when she and Mrs White arrived. Miss Pren­der­gast was asked to remove all her low­er gar­ments which she did quick­ly- hav­ing often been on the giv­ing end she knew not to antag­o­nise her  pun­ish­er still further.

Mrs White and Miss Sven­son then helped Miss Pren­der­gast over the vault­ing horse still in posi­tion from the horse­whip­ping of her son Jonathan. Miss Sven­son flexed the senior cane through the air and then sud­den­ly WHHOOOSH – the first stroke land­ed absolute dead cen­tre – these would be giv­en in groups of 6. The rest of this quite exten­sive pun­ish­ment was com­plet­ed – Miss Pren­der­gast had found out what It was like to be on the receiv­ing end and would do bet­ter to ensure that Jonathan’s behav­iour did not get her bot­tom a repeat of this punishment..

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.