Mis­tak­en Awak­en­ing Ö..A Mod­ern Fable.

Alone in her apart­ment, Miss Elsa Sven­son pre­pared for her first appoint­ment of the day. She had plen­ty of time, but ever the per­fec­tion­ist, she want­ed to devote some time to adopt­ing exact­ly the right per­sona and mannerÖÖ..

Steven was a ìnew­bieî, inas­much as heíd nev­er expe­ri­enced a can­ing, but had always fan­ta­sised about being told to ìbare and bendî by a strict head­mistress flex­ing a length of rat­tan pur­pose­ful­ly. Heíd often tried to put fan­ta­sy into real­i­ty, and had found numer­ous ìmistress­esî adver­tis­ing their ser­vices. These tend­ed to be either leather-clad dommes, hook­ers who hap­pened to have a cane ( usu­al­ly of the Anne Sum­mers type) or elder­ly har­ri­dans that should have retired years ago.

Heíd just about giv­en up on find­ing an intel­li­gent and sophis­ti­cat­ed lady, who not only looked but act­ed the part, and was only inter­est­ed in authen­ti­cal­ly can­ing his bot­tom. That was until the hap­py day when heíd googled ìLon­don SpankingîÖ.and found the won­der­ful Miss Svenson!

Her front-page mes­merised him, from her pic­ture to her intro­duc­tion, which struck such a chord in him that he knew she was the one heíd been look­ing for. A cou­ple of emails were exchanged, and an appoint­ment had been made.† A week before the appoint­ed day, heíd typed a let­ter out­lin­ing his wish­es, and had post­ed it to Miss S. Heíd also includ­ed the fee, explain­ing that he real­ly need­ed to be ìin roleî from the moment he rang her doorbell.

It was this very let­ter that Miss Sven­son was now re-read­ing. It was very spe­cif­ic as to his require­ments, but respect­ful­ly so. ìAu­then­tic scholas­tic atmosphereÖ.î she read. ìWell,î she thought , ìthe fact that Iím sit­u­at­ed in an old school build­ing should please himÖ..and that walk through the foy­er and up the stairs to my door should real­ly focus his mind!î

ìÖ..12 of the very bestÖ.î

ì† Ö..feel prop­er­ly punishedÖ.î

ìOh, Steven. Be care­ful what you wish for!î she mused with a wry smile, as she con­tin­ued to fine-tune the details of the ses­sion in her mind.

Her thoughts were rude­ly inter­rupt­ed by the buzzing of the front-door inter­com. She glanced at her watchÖ.12.40. He was 20 min­utes ear­ly! She could­nít prac­ti­cal­ly keep him wait­ing that long, but she would impress on him the fact that in her book, ear­ly was as bad as late. Steven would be get­ting a few more than the 12 he was expecting.

ìYes?î she spoke into the inter­com, a trace of gen­uine annoy­ance in her voice. ìHel­lo, itís SteÖ.î said a strange­ly chip­per male voice in response. ìYou are ear­ly, young man!î she inter­rupt­ed him sharply. ìHow­ev­er, I am ready to deal with you now, so come up, knock on my door and wait.î

With that, she turned on her heel, donned a scholas­tic gown, select­ed a crook-han­dled senior cane, and adopt­ed her most stern ìhead­mistressî vis­age, rather too eas­i­ly. Exact­ly two min­utes after the knock on her door, she opened it and ush­ered in a rather sur­prised-look­ing Steven.

ìIím sor­ry, butÖ.î began Steven, sound­ing a lot less chip­per, prob­a­bly at the sight of the gowned and cane-flex­ing† Miss S stand­ing implaca­bly before him. That kind of reac­tion was com­mon with first-timers, once they knew that a fan­ta­sy was about to become painful real­i­ty, and Miss S knew the best way to counter those nerves was to exert her total authority.

ìYou WILL be sor­ry, young man. Very sor­ry indeed!î coun­tered Miss S.† ìBut Iím here toÖ..îhe attempt­ed to con­tin­ue. Miss Sven­sonís look grew even more severe. †Play­ing the reluc­tant school­boy was one thing, but this need­ed to be nipped in the bud.† ìEnoughî she announced firm­ly. ìWe both know why youíre here, and that is to have your bot­tom caned. And that is pre­cise­ly what is now about to occur. Go and stand thereî she instruct­ed, empha­sis­ing the order by point­ing at her desk with the for­mi­da­ble cane.

ìOk, fair enoughî replied a rather crest-fall­en Steven. ìFair enough??? You impu­dent urchin, how dare you? You will speak only when asked, and you will address me as MISS. Understood?î

ìErr, yes Mis­sî he replied, as he stood against her desk, seem­ing­ly unsure what to do next. ìTurn around, you sil­ly boy. Itís your bot­tom Iím about to pun­ishî from Miss S cleared that up for him, fol­lowed by her trade-mark ìbare your bot­tom and bend over the deskî under­scored with a swish of her cane.

ìErm, I donít understandÖ.err..Missî said Steven in a fal­ter­ing voice. Miss S gave† an exas­per­at­ed sigh. ìI mean, low­er your trousers and pants, bend over and present your bare bot­tom for a can­ingî she said, in mea­sured tones, as though she was speak­ing to a sim­ple­ton. ìIf I have to do it for you, youíll feel my strap first.î

With a shrug and a soft ìoh my gawdî that did noth­ing to soft­en Miss S, he com­plied, and soon a bare bot­tom was indeed offered for her atten­tion. †ìFinallyÖ.î she mut­tered, as she advanced on the tar­get. Tap­ping his bot­tom with the cane to line up the first stroke, she con­firmed the sen­tence and gave the cus­tom­ary instruc­tions and warn­ings, before draw­ing back the cane and whip­ping it down hard across the very cen­tre of his bot­tom. The clas­sic ìmark­erî open­ing gam­bit, where the oth­er strokes would be just above or just below it. Apart from the final îspe­cialî of course, but that was for later.

The first stroke elicit­ed a sat­is­fy­ing gasp, and a wrig­gle, but to his cred­it he retained posi­tion, and uttered the required ìOne thank you, Miss Sven­sonî com­mend­ably quick­ly. He clear­ly was deter­mined to avoid penal­ty stokes at all costs, as he con­tin­ued to behave as instruct­ed while Miss S paint­ed lines of fire across his cheeks. Miss S allowed her­self a smile as she pre­pared the 12^th strokeÖhe thought it was the last, she knew it was­nít. Six more with her strap to fol­low. He would be exact­ly on-time in future.

She lined up the† ìspe­cialî, which was always deliv­ered in what she termed the sweetspot, the crease between but­tocks and thighs, and with that bit of extra wrist-action for which she was famed. This would be the stroke he would feel most and longest when­ev­er he sat down for quite a while. As heíd annoyed her with his atti­tude ear­li­er she decid­ed to enhance the ele­ment of sur­prise by lin­ing up the stroke on the first ìmark­erîÖÖbe­fore actu­al­ly deliv­er­ing it exact­ly where she intend­ed.† The result was of course as expect­ed. He shot up like a scald­ed cat, hop­ping from foot to foot, and fran­ti­cal­ly try­ing to rub away this fresh new hurt. In short, mak­ing a spec­ta­cle of him­self, but they all did, every time. Thatís why she nev­er award­ed a penal­ty on the ìspe­cialî, except for swearing.

Even though he had­nít count­ed the stroke ( he could­nít, to be fair) once heíd stopped his lit­tle dance, Miss S informed him his 12 of the best was con­clud­ed. Steven bent again, but this time to pull up his nether gar­ments, and had almost re-dressed when he was interrupted.

ìNot so fast, young man. Thereís still the mat­ter of your appalling time-keep­ing. Bare and bend again. Per­haps† a dozen with the strap will teach you that 1.00 means 1.00pm.î said Miss S, icily.

ìIím sor­ry Miss, but the card my office sent said 12.40, and thatís when I got here. Thought it best to be on time in the cir­cum­stances. But Iím not argu­ing Miss, of course Iíll do as you say. Shall I fetch the strap for you?î. And with that, Steven began to low­er his trousersÖÖ

Some­thing began to wor­ry Miss S, and she was­nít accus­tomed to the sen­sa­tion. ìWhat card? What office, Steven? What circumstances?î

ìThe card from British Gas, Miss. Iím Steven Palmer, a Senior Cus­tomer Rela­tions Man­ag­er. Hereís my ID. Itís about us cut­ting off your gas for sev­er­al days last month in error. I was detailed to apol­o­gise in per­son, and give you a com­pen­sa­tion cheque. I told my fool of a PA to noti­fy you.î

ìOh dearî replied an aghast Miss S. ìIf Iíd been informed, Iíd have arranged anoth­er time. You see, Iím a pro­fes­sion­al Dis­ci­pli­nar­i­an, and I pun­ish dis­cern­ing gen­tle­men on request when they need it. I have a first appoint­ment with a client named Steven at 1.00pm! I thought you were him, arriv­ing ear­ly! Iím so sor­ry, are you ok?î

ìA pro­fes­sion­al disciplinarian?î replied the man from the Gas Board. ìWell, youíre cer­tain­ly very good at it. And yes, Iím sur­pris­ing­ly fine, thank you Miss, albeit rather sore. †From the tone of the com­plaint let­ter you wrote, I expect­ed you to be annoyed, but I cer­tain­ly was­nít expect­ing you to demon­strate† in quite that man­ner. But please donít wor­ry, Miss. I do under­stand the mix-up, and per­haps we should keep this between our­selves? Oh, hereís your cheque.î

ìWell thank you very much, Mr. Palmer, thatís good of youî said a relieved Miss S.

ìSteven, pleaseî, he replied. ìAc­tu­al­ly, it should be me thank­ing you. I was sur­prised by your reac­tions to say the least. But there was some­thing about your man­ner, your author­i­ty that just melt­ed me. And I found myself unable to do any­thing oth­er than what I was toldÖ.and that was excit­ing, even the can­ing. I have to con­fess, when you said you were going to use the strapÖ.I actu­al­ly WANTED you to!î

ìThatís very inter­est­ing, Steven. Per­haps we should dis­cuss itÖ..but anoth­er Steven will be here for his appoint­ment in 10 min­utesî† Miss S remind­ed him.

ìAh, right.† I hope for his sake heís spot on time!î† said Steven P., rub­bing his bot­tom, and smil­ing. ìBe see­ing you Mis­sî he said as she showed him out­ÖÖand Miss S felt that she prob­a­bly wouldÖÖ

As this is a fable, there is a moral. And that isÖn­ev­er under­es­ti­mate the pow­er­ful effect of a strong deter­mined woman on the male of the species.

(NB: I asked my Amer­i­can spank-bud­dy for help with some of the Eng­lish, but the sto­ry is my own, part based on a true inci­dent I read about in an Eng­lish news­pa­per a few years back.)

ëYouíre Dutch?í

A look of sur­prise passed across Miss Sven­sonís nor­mal­ly expres­sion­less face.

ëYes, Miss Svenson.í The red-haired girl smiled demure­ly. ëFrom Ams­ter­dam. Do you have a prob­lem with that?í

Miss Sven­son scowled. Twen­ty-five years of deal­ing with lip­py teenagers had made her alert to the slight­est trace of sar­casm. Did she have a prob­lem with that? Hon­est­ly! As if she, Miss Elsa Sven­son, pil­lar of moral rec­ti­tude, was some kind of clos­et racist who would look down her nose at Dutch peo­ple. The face of the girl sit­ting in the chair on the oth­er side of the desk, her legs chaste­ly crossed, still wore the politest of smiles. But there was dev­il­ry under­neath. Miss Sven­son would bet her mort­gage on it.

ëíOf course not, of course not,í she said hasti­ly, keen not to over-react ñ there would be plen­ty of time to lay down the law lat­er, if need­ed. ëDutch girls are as wel­come at my school as French girls and Ger­man girls and, er, oth­er girls. Ams­ter­dam? Charm­ing place! Rem­brandt and tulips and, er… Youíll be most wel­come in our new, expand­ed sixth form, Miss, er…í

ëPhilippa.í The smile was as seraph­ic as ever. ëPhilip­pa von Haasen.í

The girl rose, bobbed a curt­sey, then shook Miss Sven­sonís extend­ed hand as if but­ter would­nít melt in her mouth.

So what’s the most intense feel­ing one can experience?

- Fear of the unknown?

- The rush of adren­a­line when you push your­self just that lit­tle bit fur­ther than you thought possible?

- The tum­bling of your stom­ach in the pres­ence of a beau­ti­ful woman?

You don’t know?!

Try stand­ing out­side that large wood­en door, clutch­ing a piece of paper in my hand and star­ing ner­vous­ly at the embossed sign that read: “Miss Sven­son — Headmistress”.

Just try doing that and see how you feel as you knock on that door, hear a curt voice bark “Enter”, turn the han­dle and walk in as instructedÖ

In the moment you hand Miss Sven­son the piece of paper that describes exact­ly why you’ve been sent to her as she opens it, reads it and frowns, you’ll feel all three com­bined. That sim­ple crease of her fore­head seems such an inno­cent gues­ture yet it con­veys many things instant­ly — you’re in trou­ble — a lot of trou­ble — and by the time you leave this room, you’ll have paid dear­ly for the fun that got you into this mess in the first placeÖ

Every­one does it, right? You’re in a shop, no one is look­ing — so you grab some­thing, stick it under your coat and swift­ly walk out before you’re noticedÖ except some­one did notice. You got caught, were report­ed and sent to Miss Sven­son to be dealt with. You recall the words of the lady who caught you so clear­ly — ” In my day you’d have got a damn good thrash­ing and you’d think twice about steal­ing again — so here’s my dealÖ take this note to a friend of mine, allow her to deal with you accord­ing­ly, return back here and show me proof and we’ll let this mat­ter drop. Refuse and I’ll get the Police involved — you’ll get a crim­i­nal record and maybe lose your jobÖ you decideÖ”

Miss Sven­son looks up at you and shakes her head sad­ly. Stand up and walks to the cen­tre of the room. She pulls over a chair, sits upon it and straight­ens her tight black skirt.

“I despise thieves. You are despi­ca­ble. I am going to give you a spank­ing you’ll not for­get in a hur­ry. Get over here, boy.”

You do so.

“Over my knee.”

Again you do as youíre instructed.

Her left arm push­es into the small of your back and holds you firm­ly in place as her right hand ris­es and descends in a rapid stac­ca­to rhythm as she begins to spank your back­side sharply. It kind of stings but not real­ly — if this is a ‘damn good thrash­ing’ then you’re get­ting off eas­i­ly — but then:

“Stand up and remove your trousers”

You do so — and when beck­oned, return over her knee after which the spank­ing resumes. This is start­ing to sting a lit­tle more — not too uncom­fort­able but then you feel your pants being low­ered. You start to feel it now — a warmth build­ing almost to the point of feel­ing uncom­fort­able. But hey, you can han­dle thisÖ

The spank­ing stops. You hear a draw­er being opened and closed. A cool flat object rests light­ly against your but­tocks and is rubbed over the warm sur­face. This is nice! Thanks Miss Sven­son! It is lift­ed and falls rapid­ly with a loud ‘splat!’ — a hair­brush — oh godÖ NO! This isn’t so goodÖ NOÖ NOÖ stopÖ the brush strikes over and over relent­less­ly. You strug­gle and find your right arm pinned behind your back, your legs locked in place by her right leg — no escape. It HURTS. STOP. PLEASE.

Final­ly the spank­ing ends and Miss Sven­son releas­es her iron grip on you. You stand up and she directs you to the cor­ner where you are instruct­ed to stand with your hands on your head while your back­side throbs and burns.

“That’s for steal­ing” she calls out as she strides over to a cup­board in the far cor­ner, opens the door and retrieves some­thingÖ “Now this will teach you not to steal again”…

You dare to glance over your shoul­der and catch a glimpse of a heavy black leather strap that Miss Sven­son holds firm­ly in her right hand as she draws the busi­ness end over her left palmÖ

“Get over here and hold your left hand out” she demands. Of course you do as you’re told. She lifts the strap high over her shoul­der and then with fear­some enthu­si­asm draws it back over and brings it slam­ming across your palm with a tremen­dous crack. The pain is imme­di­ate and dev­as­tat­ing. You pull your hand away and right away she shouts at you “Hold that hand back out, boy”. Oh GodÖ you do as you’re told but it’s so hardÖ a sec­ond and third stroke fol­low and then you’re told to present your right hand for the same treat­ment. Then a fur­ther three strokes are deliv­ered to both hands again as she shouts out “Let this be a leson to you, boy. If you are EVER sent to me again you’ll feel the wrath of my cane.“Ö

You know how some­times your mouth works with no dis­cernible assis­tance from your brain? How your con­scious mind seems to sim­ply observe as your mouth utters words that it knows you’ll regret lat­er? This is one of those occa­sion­sÖ and time seems to slow almost to a stop as your lips form one sin­gle word that you bare­ly whis­per but which Miss Sven­son imme­di­ate­ly responds toÖ

“Bitch.”

Her strap falls to her side. Her mouth opens and eye­brows rise in sur­prise and then sur­prise turns to anger and it’s as if a storm is gath­er­ing on the hori­zon — all seems calm but bad things are about to hap­pen. She march­es back over to her cup­board, throws the strap into it, reach­es in and with­draws a long, straight han­dled cane then strides back towards you, unbut­ton­ing the sleeve of the right hand sleeve of her blouse with her left hand as she does so then rolls it up past her elbow, reveal­ing what would in oth­er cir­cum­stances appear to be a quite love­ly, wom­an­ly arm but in this sit­u­a­tion all you can think about is how toned that slen­der fore­arm appears. The tem­pest is upon you as she lit­er­al­ly yells at you:

“BEND OVER MY DESK, HOLD ON TO THE OTHER SIDE AND DON’T YOU *DARE* GET OUT OF THAT POSITION UNTIL I TELL YOU TO.”

Oh God. Why did you say that stu­pid word. WHY.

“DID YOU NOT HEAR ME, BOY? GET OVER THAT DESK. I’LL TEACH YOU JUST HOW MUCH OF A BITCH I CAN BE.”

This is ter­ri­fy­ing — the calm, con­trolled woman has left and in her place, a furi­ous female intent on unleash­ing her wrath upon you with a stur­dy and ter­ri­fy­ing three feet of whip­py cane!

Fear­ing the con­se­quences of refusal, you do as you’re told. You bend over, you hold on to the far side firm­ly and then, the love­ly Miss Sven­son plain­ly and sim­ply gives you the thrash­ing of your life. Twen­ty four times the cane ris­es and falls. You can hear her utter lit­tle moans of exer­tion fol­lowed by a loud ‘whoosh’ and an explo­sive ‘kerr-ACK’ as she beats you and in turn you cry out over and over again. Tears stream down your face, col­lect­ing into two small pools on the hard wood­en sur­face of the desk.

So what’s the most intense feel­ing one can experience?

If you real­ly want the answer, get caught steal­ing, call Miss Sven­son a bitch and ask your­self the ques­tion again as you care­ful­ly try to sit down afterwards!

Of all the days to over­sleep, this was not the one. He had been sum­monsed to Miss Sven­son’s study 9 a.m. Sharp that very thursday

morn­ing. He raced out of the house and just man­aged to catch the bus as it pulled away. 8.50 traf­fic. Milk float. Dust cart. Lol­lipop lady. Had no one ant idea how dim a view Miss Sven­son took when pupils she had demand­ed report to her arrived late?

8.57 he jumped off the bus and raced up the hill, his mouth dry, a knot deep in the pit of his stom­ach and a sense of nau­sea and pan­ic, for he knew he would now be late.

Miss Sven­son ran the school fair­ly but firm­ly. She had cer­tain stan­dards which she expect­ed all stu­dents to adhere to and if they did­n’t they could expect to be dealt with in a thor­ough­ly tra­di­tion­al, firm man­ner. Miss Sven­son was a fair mind­ed lady who under­stood that school was a learn­ing expe­ri­ence for stu­dents who were encour­aged to learn from their mis­takes. That said, rude­ness, shod­dy work eth­ic and poor time keep­ing had no place in her school, indeed in her world.

And so it was on this crisp bright autumn morn that Mike was expect­ed to arrive on time and explain a com­plete lack of Maths home­work which includ­ed a project he should have com­plet­ed over the hol­i­days. And now his befud­dled, mum­bled, pathet­ic excus­es would be giv­en to Miss Sven­son late. She was sure to take out her annoy­ance on his bare bottom.

9.03, He reached the school gate and beyond it the sol­id oak dou­ble door which creaked open. Silence. A hawk­ish woman of slight, spindly build wear­ing a light grey lambs wool jumper, a black pen­cil skirt and black cardi­gan appeared in the office door way. “Young man.” She stated.

“I, I, I have a 9 o’clock appoint.……” He stammered.

“I know” she retort­ed. “You are late.† A whole four min­utes late.† Miss Sven­son will take a very dim view.” There was no emo­tion in her voice, but rather a resigned air of “you will bring these things upon your self.”

“Very well, up you go.” She continued.

He walked the length of the entrance hall, each step echo­ing off the bare stone wall. Library qui­et pre­vailed. An air of calm, con­trolled learn­ing. He approached the stairs. He swal­lowed. His mouth bone dry. His stom­ach one big knot. Des­per­ate for the toi­let but no time. Per­haps Miss Sven­son would under­stand. He doubt­ed it. He began to climb the stairs. The echo of each step loud­er than its pre­de­ces­sor. His heart­beat pound­ing, drown­ing out all oth­er sound. His heart now in his dry mouth. †At the top of the stairs he turned to his left and walked as if on auto pilot to the door of Miss Sven­son’s study. He knocked 3 timid knocks and almost imme­di­ate­ly the door swung open and there to the right, hold­ing the door wide open, stood Miss Svenson.

“Michael.…” she said and motioned him to enter the room.† She closed the door and ges­tured to him to take a seat in the only leather arm­chair in the room.† An uneasy silence descend­ed in the room. Miss Sven­son slow­ly but pur­pose­ful­ly walked over to a sin­gle, upright wood­en chair, hitched her skirt up very slight­ly, very ele­gant­ly and sat down, quite upright knees tight togeth­er. She drew a deep breath and sur­veyed the pupil before her as if to see if there were any signs of regret, remorse or a plea for forgiveness.

With a resigned air that said we all know why we are here, she said “Michael, I have received a note from your maths teacher. Very dis­ap­point­ing. No effort on your part. And you show me no respect either; you are late. How do you think that makes me feel? Do you real­ly have so lit­tle regard for your teach­ers, for the school, for your own self esteem??? I intend to teach you a les­son for once and for all. I was tempt­ed to make an exam­ple of you in front of the whole school. What do you think?”. She spoke slow­ly, in a con­sid­ered man­ner with the very slight­est trace of a Scan­di­na­vian accent. With­out wait­ing for his reply she con­tin­ued “such is the dis­re­spect and dis­re­gard that you have shown I have invit­ed Miss Jones to join us, so she may bare wit­ness to your pun­ish­ment. So she may at least ben­e­fit from hear­ing your sobs and screams. So that you may both know what lies in store if you ever dis­re­spect miss Jones or any oth­er mem­ber of staff ever again.

“Yes Miss Sven­son,” came the all too sheep­ish reply.

At that very moment the door knob turned and Miss Jones entered the room and closed the door behind her in what appeared to be one unin­ter­rupt­ed movement.

“Good morn­ing, Miss Sven­son” she said air­i­ly before turn­ing to the stu­dent with a stern look of con­tempt on her face. “Thank you for your note, Miss Jones,” Miss Sven­son said “and thank you for mak­ing time to join us. Stand up, young man” she said rais­ing her voice in Michaels direc­tion only very slight­ly. He stood up and the uneasy silence again returned to the room. Miss Sven­son also stood, and the two women slow­ly, men­ac­ing­ly approached him. Silence bro­ken only by the tap of their heels on the wood block floor: they cir­cled him, slow­ly in oppo­site direc­tions rather like lioness­es cir­cling their prey. He felt sick and des­per­ate­ly need­ed to spend a penny.

“Please Miss Sven­son,” he blurt­ed out, “but I do need to spen.….”

“Be qui­et.” Miss Sven­son snapped. “Only speak when you are spo­ken to.” She returned to her wood­en chair in the mid­dle of the room and resumed her posi­tion there on. She again looked at Michael almost with an air of pity. “You know only too well what you can expect, don’t you?” She said in con­cil­ia­to­ry tone.

He sniv­elled “yes Miss Svenson.”

“Then take down your trousers.…” He began to fum­ble ner­vous­ly with the fas­ten­ing. “Oh for God’s sake” hissed Miss Jones and with the speed of light ripped apart the fas­ten­ing so in an instant his trousers fell to the floor, gath­ered in a crum­pled mess around his ankles.† “That’s more like it” said Miss Sven­son, a tone of sat­is­fac­tion in her voice. She took a fresh­ly laun­dered hand tow­el, unfold­ed it †and spread it square­ly over her lap which she then pat­ted with the flat of her right hand. “Come” she com­mand­ed and in what seemed like a sin­gle sweep which was clear­ly very well prac­tised she took his right wrist and laid him flat across her lap and with­out a moments hes­i­ta­tion “thwack, thwack, thwack” rang out, his pants pro­vid­ing scant pro­tec­tion from Miss Sven­son’s no non­sense deliv­ery. Now he felt the index fin­gers of both her hands locate with­in the waist­band of his pants and slide down his thighs and ulti­mate­ly his legs, in one action as if glid­ing along rails. The pants were now on the floor and his bare bot­tom a sight for both ladies to behold, laid out on Miss Sven­son’s lap. Thwack, thwack, thwack.…. A fur­ther three pow­er­ful swats rained down on his bare bot­tom, each leav­ing the rel­e­vant but­tock trem­bling. He sensed Miss Sven­son had grit­ted her teeth in her deter­mi­na­tion to meter out an appro­pri­ate lev­el of pun­ish­ment. He glanced across the room to see Miss Jones stand­ing, arms fold­ed, watch­ing the spec­ta­cle unfold before her. Thwack, thwack, thwack, a fur­ther three blows. Miss Jones looked on with sat­is­fac­tion flick­er­ing across her face, jaw set with grim deter­mi­na­tion that this boy would learn his les­son no mat­ter what.….

Thwack thwack thwack three more slaps hard­er and in much quick­er suc­ces­sion than pre­vi­ous­ly and then again †thwack thwack thwack. He had a good view of Miss Sven­son’s shape­ly legs as he peered between the chair legs. They were clad in clas­sic, seemed silk stock­ings and his eyes fol­lowed the seems down their entire, won­der­ful length to the black patent high heel shoes. As with every­thing about Miss Sven­son, there was an ele­gant beau­ty, an effi­cien­cy which said “per­fec­tion” to all the world for that was the stan­dard, her stan­dard and she expect­ed noth­ing less from anyone.

Thwack thwack thwack yet anoth­er three slaps rained down. He knew by now his bot­tom was emit­ting a steamy hot, red glow. He not­ed how, with every slap she deliv­ered, Miss Sven­son raised his bot­tom to meet her falling hand by rid­ing her feet up on the ball of each foot. It occurred to him that she put every ounce of effort into the expert deliv­ery of every swat mak­ing each one count. Now he sensed blades of deli­cious, hot burn­ing pain across each but­tock where each of Miss Sven­son’s fin­gers left their blaz­ing red hot tell tale where they land­ed. He felt tears prick­le the back of his eye­balls. He bit his lip. Was that it? How much more did she intend to dish out??

The swats con­tin­ued to rain down on his bare bot­tom: his legs were stretched out straight so Miss Sven­son was spank­ing the full round of his bare bot­tom. “Stand up now” she said as she gen­tly mas­saged each but­tock. He stood as he had been told to. Miss Sven­son calm­ly walked over to a blan­ket box to her right and picked up a leather pad­dle. “Face the wall” she instruct­ed calm­ly, then guid­ed him so his arms were raised above his head, braced against the wall. His feet were about 50cm away from the wall. Miss Sven­son rucked up his shirt tail reveal­ing to her plea­sure the full round­ed­ness of his pert bot­tom, which by now was not just bright red but radi­at­ed a glo­ri­ous warmth. Thwaaaack, as the pad­dle hit the tar­get with an almighty crash, he caught his breath and rose up on the ball of both feet. Pause. Thwaaaack, anoth­er strike to the oppo­site but­tock. Again he caught his breath. He could begin to feel the imprint of the imple­ment sear­ing the sides of his bot­tom. Anoth­er Thwaaaack, fol­lowed by anoth­er, then anoth­er, then anoth­er. And with each he caught his breath and rose still high­er on his toes. His bot­tom was on fire. Miss Jones was grin­ning with delight, Miss Sven­son’s jaw was set in grim deter­mi­na­tion. On and on the pad­dle deliv­ered each swat with increased inten­si­ty. He was now fight­ing to con­trol his blad­der. He knew he had to.….….

Pause.

Miss Sven­son cupped and gen­tly mas­saged each but­tock in turn and whilst doing so leant for­ward so her lips aligned with his left ear. “Sore?” She enquired. “Yes” came the sniv­el­ling reply.

“Oh real­ly,” she taunt­ed, “well we shall have to see.…”. She pat­ted his bot­tom almost, it seemed, with a slight hint of affection.

“My poor lit­tle boy, such a sore bot­ty,” she whis­pered in his ear. And as she did so, she curled her toe so as to hook out from under a near­by arm chair an embroi­dered kneel­er. In one smooth move­ment she placed her left foot on the kneel­er and firm­ly pulled him over the flat of her thigh. Miss Jones now ben­e­fit­ed from the full on view of his glow­ing red bare bot­tom. Thwaaaack, Thwaaaack, Thwaaaack, this time with the back of an oval hair­brush which deliv­ered a deep pen­e­trat­ing sting matched only by the deep gloss of the dark wood handle.

Thwaaaack, Thwaaaack, Thwaaaack, yet a fur­ther three blows, the sec­ond of which caught the top of the back of his legs and just touched the rear of his scro­tum. An elec­tric shock shot to the pit of his stom­ach, knot­ted it for a moment and then the third swat brought the focus of his atten­tion back to his arse: it now felt so red, so hot, so prick­ly hot that it was his bot­tom no more! It was his arse.

Thwaaaack, Thwaaaack, Thwaaaack.† Thwaaaack, Thwaaaack, Thwaaaack. “There,” announced miss Sven­son with more than just a hint of sat­is­fac­tion in her tone of voice. “That was twelve good ones with the brush and my good­ness what a red bot­tom you’ve got..†† Stand up now and rest a while”. †It was as though she was a lit­tle sur­prised that he could take such a sound hid­ing with­out more com­plaint. Was she impressed? Unlike­ly he thought. As he stood up his eyes met miss Sven­sons momen­tar­i­ly. Then both their eyes fell to the floor. In an instant and to his absolute hor­ror and embar­rass­ment they notice, simul­ta­ne­ous­ly a small dark patch on the very bot­tom right hand cor­ner of his shirt!! Oh dear, for a split sec­ond the con­trol of hIs blad­der had failed him! Tut, tut, tut was miss Sven­sons muf­fled response. It seemed she under­stood. She fixed him with her stare, but he felt cer­tain he saw a flick­er of gen­tle kind­ness danc­ing in her eyes.

“Now,” she said slow­ly, thought­ful­ly. “Under the cir­cum­stances I think it only right that we offer Miss Jones an oppor­tu­ni­ty to vent her anger on you aswell.…† †In a moment I want you to bend over and touch your toes. I will then invite Miss Jones to step over here and join us. Do you under­stand?”. Slow­ly, thought­ful­ly, sheep­ish­ly he con­firmed his affir­ma­tion. When would this end? He asked him­self. His bot­tom was now so red, so on fire that he had lost any sense of pain; instead it was pure red hot heat.….

“Good,” Miss Sven­son con­tin­ued, “now Miss Jones, if you’d just like to .……” She did­n’t need to fin­ish the sen­tence, Miss Jones was already there.

Pic­ture the scene: Michael bent over touch­ing his toes, bare bright red bot­tom exposed to all the world. To his left Miss Sven­son and to his right Miss Jones. Both admir­ing their intend­ed tar­get with eager anticipation.

Silence. Wait. Breath. His heart beat pound­ed in his ear, in his head. His very vision seemed to throb. His mouth was still dry. Both ladies were draw­ing in breath with just a frac­tion of excite­ment. Still they wait­ed, it was as though they enjoyed the spec­ta­cle of his bare bot­tom and want­ed to savour it!

Then, with­out a word each lady took up her posi­tion, each at either side of him. Each lady gen­tly braced her­self with one hand on the small of his back. He sensed a smile flash across the cor­ners of each of their mouths, much as to ask of the oth­er “shall we?”. And so they did, each lady focussed on the red cheek near­est her; smm­maaaack, smm­maaaack, smm­maaaack. Some strokes land­ed in tan­dem with the oth­er and some did not!† It mat­tered not. Both ladies grit­ted their teeth and rat­tled out swats as though each might be the last and there­fore real­ly had to count. On and on and on they went with almost mechan­i­cal effi­cien­cy, some swats land­ed mid cheek, some to one side, some to the oth­er. Occa­sion­al­ly one of the ladies would catch the top of the back of his leg: those swats seemed to deliv­er a spe­cial, intense sting which did­n’t quite ease off before the next slap land­ed square­ly on the appro­pri­ate buttock.

And so they con­tin­ued until each lady had deliv­ered 125 sound whacks and now a tear or two ran down his cheek. “There,” announced Miss Sven­son with an air of con­tent­ment. He stood up. He felt gid­dy. “Get dressed,” said Miss Sven­son “and we shall have a lit­tle chat”.† He gath­ered his pants and trousers and put them on. The cool cot­ton of his pants cra­dled his sore bottom.

He took a seat in the cor­ner of the leather sofa, tak­ing care to low­er him­self gen­tly. Miss Sven­son sat at the oppo­site end of the sofa and Miss Jones in the leather armchair.

“Now,” Miss Sven­son began, “I think we can all agree that was a very worth­while way to learn your les­son.† Rest assured next time I will invite a select­ed audi­ence so more of your cohort will under­stand how I deal with peo­ple who behave in the man­ner you have. And you may take note, I am sure there will be a next time as expe­ri­ence has taught me that boys such as you usu­al­ly need to be seen sev­er­al times before they tru­ly under­stand the error of their ways”. He swal­lowed. The thought, the indig­ni­ty of boys and girls who he con­sid­ered to be his friends watch­ing him being spanked by Miss Sven­son filled him with hor­ror. Or did it? He was unsure. Miss Sven­son, how­ev­er, had lit­tle doubt that she would be see­ing him again soon in the not so dis­tant future.…

“Now off you go to class. Which sub­ject have you this morn­ing?” Asked Miss Sven­son with a note of con­cil­i­a­tion in her voice.

“Maths with Miss Jones,” he replied still fight­ing back the tears.

“Then I sug­gest you go with her now,” Miss Sven­son con­tin­ued “thank you both: a good morn­ings work, I’m sure you’ll agree.….”

Miss Jones thanked Miss Sven­son and they part­ed com­pa­ny with con­tent­ed smiles.

Miss Jones walked down the cor­ri­dor, down the stairs and across the play­ground with him. Although they did­n’t speak it was an easy, com­fort­able silence. They entered the Maths block and approached the class room door. Before open­ing it, Miss Jones took hold of his upper left arm “well done” she said, “now we shall start over”. Their eyes met and she not­ed a smile which said “no hard feel­ings” play across his face.

She released his arm and dug all four fin­gers and the thumb of her right hand deep into his right but­tock. At the same time she threw open the class­room door and the stu­dents with­in fell silent. He fol­lowed her in. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Log­a­rithms.….” Began Miss Jones.….….…..

Markís Mis­take
Mark was a mod­el stu­dent. He excelled at school and achieved 3 top grade ‘A’ Lev­els and was able to study law at Uni­ver­si­ty to realise his ambi­tion of becom­ing a solicitor.
Mark and his friends had just fin­ished their exams and every­one thought that they had done rea­son­ably well. Three or four of his clos­est friends decid­ed to cel­e­brate with a few bot­tles of wine that evening and Mark invit­ed them around to his stu­dent bed-sit.
Time was press­ing when he arrived home and he decid­ed to pop down the road to Miss Sven­son’s con­ve­nience store to buy some wine, cheese, pineap­ple rings and cock­tail sticks. He would just have time to return and pre­pare the food before the first of his friends arrived.
He arrived at the store five min­utes before clos­ing time and select­ed a bot­tle of red and a bot­tle of white wine. He grabbed the oth­er items and opened his wal­let to take his cred­it card out when he was hor­ri­fied to dis­cov­er that he had picked up a store loy­al­ty card instead.
There was no time for him to go home, col­lect his cred­it card and return to the store as it was about to close and he need­ed all the items for her par­ty. He had a rash thought — com­plete­ly out of char­ac­ter. He had enough cash to pay for the wine and pineap­ple. He knew Miss Sven­son only had one CCTV cam­era and that cov­ered the wine and spir­its sec­tion of her shop. He could eas­i­ly slip the cheese and cock­tail sticks into his bag in the oth­er part of the shop where no one could see him and come back in the morn­ing and pay for them.
What he did­n’t know how­ev­er was that Miss Sven­son had, only that day, had a new CCTV sys­tem with three cam­eras installed. She was in her office at the back of the store watch­ing Mark, as he was the only cus­tomer, wait­ing for him to pay for his goods so that she could lock up and go home. She clear­ly saw him slip the cheese and cock­tail sticks into his plas­tic bag and move towards the till where Amy a 17 year old assis­tant was on duty.
She decid­ed to move to the shop door where she could watch Mark at the till and then went out­side to col­lect the adver­tis­ing board. Mark paid for the wine and pineap­ple rings and placed them in her bag with the receipt.
Miss Sven­son stopped Mark as the shop door closed behind him “Just a minute young man” she said “May I have a look in your bag?” Mark sud­den­ly felt sick — she knew Miss Sven­son must some­how have seen him slip the items into his bag. He then had a greater sink­ing feel­ing — what if she called the police! — if he was pros­e­cut­ed for theft he could nev­er become a solic­i­tor — all those years of study would be wast­ed- his fam­i­ly name would be shamed!
He could­n’t speak coher­ent­ly and just mum­bled some­thing to Miss Sven­son. “I think that you ought to come back into the shop with me young man” she said. She told Amy that she could go and that she would lock the doors and cash up.
Miss Sven­son locked the door and escort­ed Mark into her office. She played back the CCTV tape and said “Now then — how do you explain this? — I think that we should call the police”
Mark was now near to tears — his legs had turned to jel­ly. His cho­sen career was in ruins all for the price of some cheese.
“No don’t call the police — pleeease! There must be some oth­er way — pleeease.….I can pay for the cheese first thing tomorrow.…I can work in your shop for nothing.….my par­ents own a chain of con­ve­nience stores so i’m used to the work.…please, please any­thing but the police”
Miss Sven­son looked at the young man stand­ing in front of her. He ner­vous­ly pulled at the ends of his shoul­der length black hair and begged her again not to call the police. She looked again at the trem­bling stu­dent dressed in a white tee-shirt and tight black trousers. He remind­ed her of her own broth­er who was only a few years old­er and thought of the shame it would have brought on her fam­i­ly if he had been prosecuted.
“What is your name?” he enquired. “Mark” he stam­mered. “Well Mark you must be pun­ished for what you have done but if you let me pun­ish you as I would my own son, then the police need not be involved. The pun­ish­ment must remain an agree­ment between our­selves — nobody else is to know”.
“I will agree to any­thing — but don’t call the police” said Mark slight­ly more relieved now that his career might not be over after all. “What do you want me to do?”
“Well” Miss Sven­son replied “When I said that I would pun­ish you as I would my own son — that will mean cor­po­ral pun­ish­ment. You will bend over for a hand spank­ing, fol­lowed by six swats with a slip­per and final­ly six stokes of the cane”
Mark looked shocked. He had nev­er been spanked as a child. Now he faced a spank­ing, the slip­per and the cane all in one go! Even the worst behaved boys at his school had nev­er expe­ri­enced that!
“When you are ready Mark we will get it over with. Come here” com­mand­ed Miss Sven­son in a stern voice. Mark moved to the cen­tre of the room. “Bend over!” He bent over and grabbed his ankles. His long dark hair fell for­ward over his eyes. Miss Sven­son paused for a moment to admire the pert bot­tom in front of her encased in the black trousers which had now stretched even tighter around his buttocks.
Miss Sven­son took aim and her hand land­ed with a SMACK on his right but­tock. He swayed for­ward with the force of the blow and a few sec­onds lat­er he stum­bled for­ward as a SMACK land­ed on the left buttock.
“Stay still!” com­mand­ed Miss Sven­son. Mark had nev­er expe­ri­enced any­thing like this and let out an OWOOO! †He took a new stance with his legs fur­ther apart which gave him greater bal­ance and remained in posi­tion whilst his but­tocks each received two fur­ther smacks.
“Stand up” ordered Miss Sven­son. Mark stood and rubbed his sting­ing bot­tom. “Now for the slip­per — I want you to bend over and hold the arms of that chair” He saw an old easy chair at the side of the room and bent over and grabbed the arms with her hands. He ner­vous­ly turned and saw Miss Sven­son with a huge brown slip­per in her hand which must have been at least size 10.
“Lets get this part over with” she announced and took aim. WHOPP came the first blow. Mark nev­er expect­ed it to be so hard and he let out a tremen­dous AARRGH! “Only five more to go” WHOPP, WHOPP, Mark grasped the arms of the chair so tight in an attempt to lessen the pain that his fin­gers went through the worn out fab­ric. WHOPP, WHOPP, WHOPP. He lept up after the sixth whack and danced around the room, rub­bing his throb­bing bottom.
“Now for the final part of your pun­ish­ment Mark — and this will hurt the most” announced Miss Sven­son as she searched in a cup­board and bought out a thin rat­ten cane about three feet in length. “I want you to bend back over the chair and after the third stroke low­er your trousers and pants so that you receive the final three stokes on your bare bot­tom” she commanded.
Mark was shocked. The cane was bad enough but on the bare. The boys at his school nev­er received such humil­i­a­tion. “Oh no! nnnot on the bbbare” he stam­mered. “The choice is yours Mark — fin­ish the pun­ish­ment we agreed on or I could still pros­e­cute for shoplift­ing” said Miss Svenson.
Mark decid­ed to argue no fur­ther and slow­ly bent back over the chair grasped the arms, feel­ing the holes he made min­utes ear­li­er and stuck his throb­bing bot­tom out ready for its final chas­tise­ment. “Ready?” asked Miss Sven­son. “Yes” he whis­pered. He heard the cane swish­ing through the air as Miss Sven­son prac­tised her aim and then felt a tap on his bot­tom which sig­nalled the point of like­ly con­tact. He closed his eyes and held his breath and thought that in a few min­utes this whole night­mare would be over.
A swish soon fol­lowed by a THWAK as the cane land­ed and made a dent in his trousered behind. YEEOOWW! he yelped. He jerked up and tried to smooth the area where the sear­ing pain was com­ing from. “Stay still” came the firm voice of Miss Sven­son “or I will add penal­ty strokes” Mark did­n’t reply bit­ing his lips and bent back over the chair think­ing that the quick­er this was over the bet­ter. Swish THWAK! Swish THWAK! the cane made two fur­ther con­tacts with him before the time came for him to low­er his trousers.
He slow­ly raised him­self up and fum­bled with the clasp and zip on his trousers before low­er­ing them gen­tly over his throb­bing but­tocks leav­ing them at thigh lev­el. Miss Sven­son admired the wheals that had start­ed to form and thought to her­self that she would see if she could get the next three stokes par­al­lel to them. Mark low­ered him­self again and braced him­self for the final part of his pun­ish­ment. Swish THWAK!, Swish THWAK!, Swish THWAK! ARRRGGGH!
Mark shot up, tried to dance around the room rub­bing his sore bot­tom and almost tripped over his half low­ered trousers. He pulled them up and gen­tly raised them over his sting­ing rear before clum­si­ly secur­ing the zip and clasp.
“I hope that you will have learnt your les­son Mark and that you will nev­er try to steal from me again” thun­dered Miss Sven­son “And there is just one fur­ther thing. I shall expect you here by 9.00 a.m. with £4.92 to pay for your cheese and cock­tail sticks” “YYYes” Mark stam­mered. “I will”
Miss Sven­son gave Mark a moment to com­pose him­self and then escort­ed him through the shop, unlocked the door, and let him out. Mark looked at his watch — his ordeal had only last­ed twen­ty min­utes. He still had time to return to his bed sit and pre­pare for his guests.
The par­ty went very well and was enjoyed by all. No one noticed that Mark stood for the whole evening or occa­sion­al­ly rubbed his bottom!
The next morn­ing arrived and Mark was in Miss Sven­son’s shop by 9.00 a.m. with the prince­ly sum of £4.92. He hand­ed it over and Miss Sven­son accept­ed it with a wry smile. “How are you this morn­ing Mark?” she enquired. “Fine thank you” he replied and reflect­ed how grate­ful he was to still have a career to look for­ward to and how expen­sive that cheese could have been!

Miss Sven­sonís Detention

The boy stared at the list in uncom­pre­hend­ing ter­ror. There on the notice board, in full view of the rest of the school was his name on that most dread­ed of lists ñ Miss Sven­sonís Deten­tion.†† Every Tues­day lunchtime there was one or some­times two names post­ed there.† The unfor­tu­nate boy then knew that he was to report to the Head­mistress after school had fin­ished on Fri­day for what was termed a deten­tion but all the pupils knew that Miss Sven­sonís deten­tion hour includ­ed much more than the writ­ing of lines or an essay under her eagle eyed super­vi­sion. Miss Sven­sonís deten­tion meant cor­po­ral pun­ish­ment usu­al­ly with the cane and fre­quent­ly across the bare bottom.

The boy now expe­ri­enced what every oth­er boy whose name had graced that list had felt ñ a knot in the pit of stom­ach as he real­ized that he had over three days to wait before he would know for cer­tain the fate that await­ed him at the hands of the fear­some Miss Svenson.

Every stu­dent exam­ined that list with fear­ful expec­ta­tion after lunch on a Tues­day ñ even the girls, for Miss Sven­sonís right­eous fury could occa­sion­al­ly be vis­it­ed on a girl although to the boysí regret no girl had ever been pun­ished in front of the boys even though a few boys had not been spared the ulti­mate humil­i­a­tion of being pun­ished in front of the oppo­site sex.

That was prob­a­bly why his friends who saw the list offered him brief but heart­felt expres­sions of sym­pa­thy. The girls on the oth­er hand rev­elled in the tor­ments they could impose on any boy whose name appeared on Miss Sven­sonís dread­ed deten­tion list.

ìAre you going to get the cane?î they would ask grin­ning with mali­cious plea­sure at the thought.

ìYouíre going to get it on the bare, you knowî, they chor­tled, their eyes bright with the prospect of his humiliation.

ìYou donít mind if weíre out­side the door lis­ten­ing, do you?î

The boy felt his mouth dry at the prospect. Was it the pain that was like­ly to be inflict­ed on his bot­tom that was caus­ing him the anguish or was it the humil­i­a­tion of hav­ing to low­er his trousers and pants and bend over Miss Sven­sonís desk? He was going to be inca­pable of think­ing about any­thing else for the next few days. Indeed the rea­son why he was on Miss Sven­sonís list was not clear to him but he knew it was­nít a mis­take. Miss Sven­son nev­er made mis­takes and any attempt to ques­tion why he was going to be caned would prob­a­bly increase his sen­tence. He would sim­ply have to accept his fate and what­ev­er pun­ish­ment she chose to inflict on his bare backside.

Time seemed to stop. That first night at home seemed to last for ever. He tossed and turned in bed see­ing the image of the ice blonde Head­mistress tap­ping her cane men­ac­ing­ly across her open palm, wait­ing for the dread­ed words ìTake down your trousers and bend across my desk.î Would he have to take his own pants down? Would she let him keep them on?† Would she take them down her­self? It was long past mid­night before he final­ly fell asleep.

He passed her next day in the cor­ri­dor out­side the sixth form com­mon room. He stopped and stared at her, expect­ing some kind of com­ment about what he would face on Fri­day but she swept by with­out even glanc­ing in his direc­tion. Would she remem­ber him bet­ter next week after she had giv­en him twelve strokes of the cane across his bare bot­tom he won­dered or was he just some­one who would sim­ply occu­py the ten min­utes of her time after school on Fri­day when she rou­tine­ly caned any boy who was on her Deten­tion list?

He real­ized that much as he dread­ed the inevitable can­ing there was some­thing about it that was entic­ing, some­thing that caused his heart to race when he thought about the encounter, some­thing that caused him to think quite dif­fer­ent­ly from the way he thought about pain in any oth­er context.

Was it the can­ing that was caus­ing him this high­ly unto­ward response or was it the prospect of appear­ing in front of Miss Sven­son? Almost before he had phrased the ques­tion he knew the answer. It was­nít just appear­ing in front of Miss Sven­son it was the knowl­edge that for how­ev­er brief the time would be he was hers alone for those min­utes. He was­nít just some boy who filled out the assem­bly hall, a face she passed with­out notic­ing in the cor­ri­dor.† His per­son, or at least his body, would mer­it her full and exclu­sive atten­tion for that brief pre­cious pas­sage of time.

Sure­ly, he thought, he could arrange to be alone with her with­out the need to suf­fer a painful and humil­i­at­ing pun­ish­ment?† Could he not invent some char­i­ta­ble enter­prise, some­thing that would attract favourable pub­lic­i­ty for the school, any­thing that required him to be clos­et­ed with Miss Sven­son for con­sid­er­able time?† It had to be some­thing that would cause her to remem­ber him with pleasure.

He was lying awake in bed that sec­ond night when he real­ized that the rea­son why he did­nít fol­low up any of the excus­es that occurred to him was because he did­nít want to. At some lev­el, at some very basic lev­el, he want­ed her to pun­ish him. His ratio­nal self could not accept it but he knew deep down it was true.† He did­nít want to talk about the weath­er with Miss Sven­son and he did­nít want to be caned by any­one else, woman or man.† The truth was that it was the com­bi­na­tion of these two ideas, the pun­ish­ment ses­sion and the fact that it would be car­ried out by Miss Sven­son that caused him to expe­ri­ence those fris­sons of excite­ment that had been run­ning through his body since he first saw, with heart-stop­ping pan­ic, his name on the Head­mistressís Deten­tion list.

Work­ing it out in his mind gave him a great sense of calm. When Fri­day arrived, he knew as he shut the front door of his house that when he opened that door again he would be car­ry­ing those dis­tinc­tive par­al­lel red marks of Miss Sven­sonís cane. Now, remark­ably, the taunts of the girls and the sym­pa­thet­ic unspo­ken looks of the boys meant lit­tle to him.

The girls could no longer get to him. When they teased him with the prospect of what lay ahead for him at four oíclock he just smiled. When they told him they had heard Miss Sven­son prac­tis­ing for his arrival by whack­ing the cane down on a pil­low or the back of the leather arm­chair in her study he laughed. The girls were tak­en aback. Pre­vi­ous­ly this image had nev­er failed to get a rise out of the boys who were due to be caned by Miss Sven­son. It was some­thing they dread­ed, some­thing that they could­nít bear even to think about let alone have it form the sub­ject of the girl­sí con­ver­sa­tion. Now here, final­ly, was a boy who was imper­vi­ous to such remarks, a boy who was not intim­i­dat­ed by the appear­ance of his name on the Deten­tion List , a boy who, how­ev­er bizarrely, appeared to be look­ing for­ward to the trip to Miss Sven­sonís study even though the whole school knew the rea­son why he was going there.

At four oíclock, as the bell rang for the end of the last les­son of the day, he thrust his well-thumbed copy of the short sto­ries of Guy de Mau­pas­sant into his lock­er and slipped into the toi­lets. He splashed his face with cold water, dried his hands on the roller tow­el and ran a comb care­ful­ly through his hair.

He knew that by tak­ing these extra few min­utes he would be late for Miss Sven­son and she would undoubt­ed­ly add on extra strokes to his pun­ish­ment but it did­nít both­er him in the least.† Noth­ing she was going to do was going to upset him. He might be going to his exe­cu­tion but he would go at his own pace and effec­tive­ly of his own voli­tion for he want­ed to demon­strate to the cane-wield­ing Head­mistress that the num­ber of strokes he was to receive and the sever­i­ty with which those strokes were admin­is­tered would not break his spir­it and would not cause him to pan­ic. He want­ed her to pun­ish him. He want­ed her to take the cane out of her cane cup­board.† He want­ed her to take down his trousers.†† He want­ed her to place him in what­ev­er humil­i­at­ing posi­tions she could devise for him. And what gave him more plea­sure than any­thing else was he knew that this was pre­cise­ly what she was going to do.

It was sev­en min­utes past four when he knocked on the door of Miss Sven­sonís study. The sev­en min­utes would be the first thing she was going to men­tion.† He heard the slight­ly muf­fled call, ìCome in!î

He opened the door to see the woman he was long­ing to meet stand­ing in front of him, a slight but high­ly becom­ing frown dis­turb­ing her tra­di­tion­al equa­nim­i­ty.† A fear­some if icon­ic crook-han­dled cane lay on her oth­er­wise emp­ty desk. The boy exult­ed qui­et­ly. So far it was all work­ing out perfectly.

Try­ing the patience of a saint

Miss Sven­son had inher­it­ed a very dif­fi­cult sit­u­a­tion when she became head­mistress, but she had impressed every­one by her calm, con­sid­ered and extreme­ly effec­tive approach to deal­ing with the main prob­lem areas one by one.

Her first pri­or­i­ty had been to tack­le the prob­lem of pil­fer­ing ñ espe­cial­ly the pil­fer­ing of girl’s knick­ers from the gym chang­ing rooms and lock­ers.† Michael was one of the prin­ci­pal offend­ers in this area and had proved an obdu­rate case.† Even­tu­al­ly, after acquir­ing some top qual­i­ty school straps, and sev­er­al ses­sions with Michael in her study over her knee, touch­ing his toes and over the arm of the couch, she was final­ly mak­ing progress.

Michael had had a few ses­sions at the school assem­bly where his knick­ers were well and tru­ly warmed, and he had been threat­ened with a tour of the class­rooms where the girls whose knick­ers he had tak­en could see the consequences.

It was in may ways amaz­ing that Miss Sven­son was able to pre­serve her equa­nim­i­ty and not com­plete­ly lose her tem­per con­sid­er­ing Michael’s behav­ior.† Miss Sven­son smacked real­ly hard, but always under com­plete con­trol, more in sad­ness than in anger.

Anoth­er head­mistress might have lost her tem­per, but Miss Sven­son nev­er did.† This report gives the back­ground to the one time that Miss Sven­son was real­ly and tru­ly angry and smacked ìin tem­perî rather than in her usu­al calm manner.

The inci­dent took place as Miss Sven­son began her ìcam­paignî against the sec­ond major prob­lem she had with the boys’ (espe­cial­ly of course, Michael) behav­ior after she had made progress with the ini­tial prob­lem of pilfering.

This was the prob­lem of cer­tain boys hav­ing a fix­a­tion with girls’ knick­ers and bot­toms ñ in the sense of look­ing up skirts, even lift­ing skirts and, in Michael’s case, spy­ing in the girls’ toilets.

It is very hard to under­stand the nature of some boys’ fix­a­tion with ìknick­ers up skirt­sî and this can be illus­trat­ed by con­sid­er­ing that, at St. Mary’s the girls play hock­ey in games skirts while they do net­ball and gym in reg­u­la­tion gym knickers.

One would expect to see the boys gath­ered round the net­ball courts where there are plen­ty of girls clad in just knick­ers for them to leer at.† But in fact, it is round the hock­ey pitch that they are to be found.

It seems that a boy would rather catch a glimpse of a girl’s knick­ers under her skirt, than to see her wear­ing noth­ing but knick­ers.† The lit­tle madams know that very well, and many a time a naughty lit­tle minx had made a vis­it to Miss Sven­son’s study, where there is anoth­er oppor­tu­ni­ty for them to show off their knick­ers ñ though one they seem much less enthu­si­as­tic about.

Once the girls real­ized the con­se­quences of this kind of behav­ior there was an imme­di­ate decline in the oppor­tu­ni­ties for the boys to get a ìfree lookî but this also led to a most regret­table inci­dence of skirt flip­ping by some of the boys ñ and, of course, Michael was a ringleader.

Michael actu­al­ly ini­ti­at­ed a game in which points were award­ed.† The basic scale was 1 point for a skirt lift for a first year girl, 2 for a sec­ond year, up to 6 for a 6^th for­mer.† Points were dou­bled for a ìstealthy liftî which meant pin­ning the skirt hem to the back of a girl’s blouse with­out her real­iz­ing it.

Final­ly, and most dis­grace­ful, triple points were earned for com­ing up behind a net­ball play­er and pulling her knick­ers down.† So far, Michael had not been caught earn­ing triple points, but he had had a num­ber of ìchat­sî with Miss Sven­son about his sin­gle and dou­ble points tally.

By way of ìpo­et­ic jus­ticeî Miss Sven­son had spo­ken to his moth­er who sent Michael’s old kilt to school.† This was, by now, far too short for him, short­er even than the girls’ hock­ey skirts, and he would spend an hour or so wait­ing out­side Miss Sven­son’s study with the kilt pinned up at the back to be admired by all passers by.

He used to des­per­ate­ly wish that he could have a good stur­dy pair of navy blue gym knick­ers, for such occa­sions, but giv­en his predilec­tion for pil­fer­ing knick­ers, he would be com­pelled to dis­play a vari­ety of ìnot very niceî knickers.

His down­fall came on the Sat­ur­day of the annu­al sports day, a high­light of which was the staff/pupil hock­ey match, and as a good sport, Miss Sven­son par­tic­i­pat­ed.† As may be imag­ined, prac­ti­cal­ly every boy in school found a com­pelling inter­est in girls’ hock­ey.† The staff team was in white blous­es, navy pleat­ed skirts and bot­tle green knick­ers.† In fact, although the skirts are short, in gen­er­al there is very lit­tle dis­play of knick­ers, but boys are eter­nal optimists.

Lat­er, in the after­noon when the match was over, Michael was ìprowl­ingî look­ing for tar­gets of oppor­tu­ni­ty, and he sud­den­ly came upon what seemed to him to be a fan­tas­tic dou­ble 6 point­er.† An ele­gant 6^th for­mer was lean­ing on the rail watch­ing the activ­i­ty on the field.† There was nobody stand­ing near­by, and Michael had his big safe­ty pin.

He stole up behind her and took hold of the hem of her skirt and raised it gen­tly.† He almost swooned with delight as he exposed the navy blue cov­ered bot­tom.† But then dis­as­ter struck as he began to insert the pin.† Some­thing alert­ed the ìgirlî and she swung around sud­den­ly and caught him in the act.

Then he real­ly did just about die as the ìgirlî turned out to be none oth­er than his head­mistress, Miss Sven­son, and she was FURIOUS.

How is it that a lady has a sense for the posi­tion of her skirt and the risk of dis­play­ing her knick­ers?† Is it some­thing that girls learn as they grow up, or is it an instinct that they are born with?

In spite of all the ladies wear­ing skirts and the preva­lence of high winds, it is a rare treat for the naughty boy to catch a glimpse of a lady’s knick­ers.† Do the ladies sense when the gust of wind is about to come and know how to dis­crete­ly con­trol the hem to pre­serve mod­esty?† And, as the naughty boys resort to naughty tricks to steal glimpses, do the ladies have an instinct for the gaze of the naughty boys?

Just as the fruit that is out of reach is the most tempt­ing, so the naughty boy lusts to see the ìunattain­able knickers.î† Miss Sven­son’s usu­al style of dress, with her knee-length straight skirts offered lit­tle oppor­tu­ni­ty for pry­ing eyes.

Per­haps, as the joined in the annu­al staff-pupil hock­ey match, Miss Sven­son, had a momen­tary thought of allow­ing the naughty boys an oppor­tu­ni­ty to indulge their fer­tile imag­i­na­tion.† And, in real­i­ty, it was essen­tial­ly imag­i­na­tion, for, in spite of the short­ness of the uni­form hock­ey skirt, it was rare to see any­thing but a momen­tary glimpse of a navy blue knick­er leg.

Michael had mis­tak­en Miss Sven­son for a 6^th form girl and, in line with the stu­pid point-scor­ing game that he had invent­ed, he saw an oppor­tu­ni­ty for a ìdou­ble 6î score (6 points for reveal­ing a 6^th-for­mer’s knick­ers, dou­bled for pin­ning up the back of the skirt.

He had raised the skirt at the back ready to put the pin in place, per­haps he paused to admire the expanse of navy blue cot­ton cov­er­ing the ìgirl’sî exquis­ite­ly formed bot­tom, and that was his undoing.

Miss Sven­son’s ìla­dy’s intu­itionî alert­ed her to the rais­ing of the hem of her skirt and she spun around, a hand sweep­ing the hem instinc­tive­ly back into place.† Per­haps her ini­tial thought was that there had been a gust of wind, and as she swung around, she was dis­con­cert­ed to find Michael stand­ing right behind her.

Her hands went instinc­tive­ly to the seat of her skirt, smooth­ing it down and then she not­ed Michael with a look of shock and hor­ror on his face as he real­ized what he had done.† Ini­tial­ly she was a lit­tle dis­ori­ent­ed, unsure of exact­ly what had occurred, and then she came to the shocked real­iza­tion that Michael had actu­al­ly dared to lift up the hem of her skirt.

What do you think you are doing?† Did you touch my skirt?† Michael was just speech­less, and could only gape open mouthed.† Instinc­tive­ly, Miss Sven­son gave him an almighty smack round the side of his head and grabbed him by the wrist.

She quick­ly col­lect­ed her­self and paused to count to 5.† She then began to drag him by the wrist towards the school build­ings, berat­ing and scold­ing him as she pulled him along.† She was a bit like a pot boil­ing over and every few steps, she would pause and wal­lop him round the legs and con­tin­ue the scold­ing and promis­es of what was to come.

As they pro­gressed, an audi­ence accu­mu­lat­ed as the girls saw their tor­men­tor final­ly brought to jus­tice.† Each flur­ry of smacks was greet­ed by cheers and by the time they reached the office, there were a dozen or so girls and a few teach­ers watch­ing the proceedings.

By this time, Miss Sven­son’s anger had reached full boil­ing point, and her mind was full of thoughts of mur­der.† Real­iz­ing that she need­ed a moment to just gath­er her thoughts and decide exact­ly what to do, she left him in charge of the school sec­re­tary while she went into her office to change clothes and to plan the next step.† Before going into her office she asked the sec­re­tary to ìget his shorts and knick­ers offî and I will be out in a minute to deal with him.

Now, although Miss Sven­son nev­er hes­i­tat­ed to smack on the bare bot­tom, she did­n’t approve at all of ìnu­di­tyî or exces­sive expo­sure but on this occa­sion, per­haps because of the nature of Michael’s offense, his shorts and knick­ers came right off, leav­ing him in only his short t‑shirt.

Miss Sven­son’s first instinct was to reach for the real­ly big heavy tawse and to thrash Michael ìwith­in an inch of his lifeî but she also real­ized that in her furi­ous state, she might either ìdam­ageî him, or else feel bound to stop before she had ful­ly vent­ed her fury.† So, she select­ed the short ìsmack­ing strapî and resolved to give him a smack­ing that would go down in history.

This was cer­tain­ly not a deci­sion to be ìle­nien­tî — far from it, if any­thing it was part of a deci­sion to be as severe as pos­si­ble.† She had decid­ed that the smack­ing would be only the first com­po­nent, and it would be fol­lowed in due time by a sound thrash­ing with the big strap.† And, in addi­tion, the smack­ing that she had in mind was cer­tain­ly not a soft option.

Miss Sven­son’s usu­al approach to severe pun­ish­ment took the form of ìset­sî of wal­lops with the cane or the strap.† Sets were usu­al­ly 24 at a time, and she required the recip­i­ent to keep count.

In spite of the sever­i­ty of the strokes, boys devel­op ìde­fense mech­a­nism­sî to cope with such strap­pings.† In a 24 stroke strap­ping, the boy will grit his teeth through the first 6, and then ìcount downî through to the end of the first 12 and then focus on the fact that it is more than half over and then, before he knows it, he is count­ing out the last 6 towards the end.† In addi­tion, boys real­ize that the need to count, gives them a pos­si­bil­i­ty (just a lit­tle) do delay the count to ìcon­trolî the tim­ing of strokes.

With a ìsmack­ingî there is no set num­ber for the boy to focus on, and there is no steady pace for the strokes.† Repeat­ed hard smacks on the same place cause a build-up of pain that feels like an unquench­able fire that becomes unbear­able.† And then comes the real­iza­tion that, even though it is utter­ly unbear­able, it is not going to stop, but it is going to get sor­er and sorer.

That is the point where one gets the hope­less tears , and then comes the real­iza­tion, that it will be even worse as Miss Sven­son moves the land­ing spot from bot­tom down to the tops of the legs, smack­ing if it is pos­si­ble, even hard­er, with the admo­ni­tion ìstop that cry­ingî and ìdo you want some­thing to real­ly cry about?î

The oth­er aspect of these smack­ings was that in spite of the sever­i­ty, it result­ed in a real­ly sore and hot bot­tom, but did no last­ing dam­age, so it was a ìsaferî form of pun­ish­ment to give ìin anger.î

So, it was with that deter­mi­na­tion that Miss Sven­son emerged from her office with the smack­ing strap ready to deal with Michael.

But before the smack­ing began, she resolved to ìget to the bot­tomî of Michael’s non­sense and the sil­ly game.† In front of the con­sid­er­able audi­ence that had gath­ered, she ques­tioned him in detail.† She got the con­fes­sion that he had done it as part of his point gath­er­ing game, and she made him explain how the points were gath­ered and she forced him to con­fess to how many points he had accu­mu­lat­ed and how.

Dur­ing the inter­ro­ga­tion, he had to stand with his hands on his head and she punc­tu­at­ed the ìdis­cus­sionî with hard smacks round his legs.† Even­tu­al­ly, the smack­ing began with his shorts and knick­ers not round his ankles, but com­plete­ly off, and the smack­ing was not giv­en by hand, but with the smack­ing strap.

At the con­clu­sion, Miss Sven­son announced that Michael would be appear­ing at the Mon­day morn­ing assem­bly, dressed for net­ball (blouse and knick­ers) and all the girls would earn a triple point score when his knick­ers came down to receive the big strap.† She said she would announce at assem­bly whether he was to have a fixed num­ber or an uncount­ed thrashing.

She also announced that, until fur­ther notice, Michael would wear his kilt (the very short one) at school, and that it would be pinned up at the back (and she also said that each girls’ class could take a turn at pro­vid­ing the knick­ers that he would wear under his kilt.)

School Reunion

It was late and was relieved to see a light still on in the school office. I knocked and entered, expect­ing to see my old head­mistressís sec­re­tary. But I was in for a shock.

ëElsa!í

Elsa Sven­son had been a pupil at the school when Iíd been there. A girl I had both idolised and feared.

She looked up and I saw a flick­er of pleased recog­ni­tion in her eyes. NonethelessÖ

ëMiss Svenson,í she cor­rect­ed, her voice stern.

I blushed, but smiled in delight. Elsa had been a Year 10 girl when I arrived as an eleven year old, and stayed on through the sixth form before going to uni­ver­si­ty. She was seen as unusu­al and quirky, and although qui­et as a sixth for­mer had a rep­u­ta­tion for being eager with her pre­fec­tís plim­soll. How­ev­er I had been cap­ti­vat­ed by her pow­er and pres­ence when I was 15. I felt she was fond of me too, even if she would nev­er show it ñ oth­er than by mak­ing sure my bot­tom felt her dis­ci­pline reg­u­lar­ly, and were accom­pa­nied by long telling offs — and odd­ly, her gen­er­al views on life. It was the only way I got to spend time with her, so I rel­ished it. It was over­whelm­ing to see her again ñ and odd­ly thrilling to find myself still under her power.

ëSor­ry. Miss Svenson,í I cor­rect­ed myself. ëAre you teach­ing here now?í The excite­ment and delight must have been clear in my voice.

ëI am Head­mistress here now! I joined the school straight from university.í She paused, gaz­ing at me with obvi­ous mem­o­ries in her mindís eye. ëWell, Tim­o­thy, it is nice to see you again. The last time I saw you, you were scam­per­ing out my door with your hands clamped to your bot­tom. Such a cute 15 year old at the time. Well, what can I do for you?í

I stam­mered my reply, still blush­ing at her com­ment. ëI phoned the school last week,í I said. ëI need a copy of my exam scores. For a course I want to attend.í

ëOh dear, lost the orig­i­nals, have you? That was very sil­ly of you was­nít it?í

I flushed again. Obvi­ous­ly, Elsa Sven­son had not lost the plea­sure she got from mak­ing boys under her pow­er squirm. I liked it but it always made me red­den. All my feel­ings were com­ing back to me; the embar­rassed delight of being called to her study-room and being beat­en bare bot­tomed by her plimsoll.

ëOk, fol­low me and Iíll look up your file.í She stood up and led me through into the Head­mistress­es study — her study — imme­di­ate­ly going to the large fil­ing cab­i­net in the cor­ner. Her crisp white blouse tucked into an extreme­ly tight black skirt, which hugged her bot­tom in the most tan­ta­lis­ing way before flar­ing out into pleats below her knees ñ she had put on weight since I last saw her and it suit­ed her well. Her style had a smart but old fash­ioned feel about it that went well with the weight gain and I saw it was even pos­si­ble to see her panty line thus reveal­ing that she favoured full cut under­wear — anoth­er aspect of her quirk­i­ness no doubt. I was open­ly star­ing at her bot­tom until I noticed with hor­ror that behind the cab­i­net was a mir­ror that allowed her to watch me. I did not know if she had seen, and could only hope she had not thought to look up, but nonethe­less when she came back to sit down, I found my face was burn­ing and it was hard to look at her.

ëHere you are; fun­ny that I nev­er thought to look up your file before. You did­nít do very well did you!í She said, and then noticed my face. ëAre you all right, Tim­o­thy? You seem flustered.í

ëIím fine, um Miss Svenson,í I said quick­ly. ëIt is prob­a­bly just rec­ol­lec­tions of the head­mistress going to those files while I wait­ed here,í I added. It was an off the top of my head excuse, but as soon as I said it, I wished I hadnít.

ëReally?í Miss Sven­son mur­mured, stand­ing up again. ëHow many times did you have to vis­it the head­mistress I wonder?í She returned to the cab­i­net, and spent a few moments rif­fling through the dis­ci­pline papers, which required her to bend for­ward. I tried to look any­where but at the seat of her tight skirt and total­ly failed.

ëHow interesting,í Miss Sven­son said, stand­ing up and look­ing at me in the mir­ror, mak­ing it quite clear to me that I could be seen. ëYou seem to have incurred a fair num­ber of vis­its here over the years you were here. I see Mrs Steel had cause to cane your naughty bot­tom a num­ber of times.í She paused to turn and look at me direct­ly, before adding, ëWhat a very sore bot­tom you must have had! All those can­ings along with the slip­per­ings I had to give you. I remem­ber now how often you had lines on it.í

My face must have been crim­son, but I said noth­ing. She grinned in obvi­ous plea­sure, and turned back to the files. After a few more moments of flip­ping through them, tut­ting, she gasped. ëGood heav­ens! Well, well, well. It says here that you left with­out set­tling a final dis­ci­pli­nary matter!í

ëDid I?í I tried to sound casu­al, but I was of course well aware of what she was refer­ring to.

ëA twelve stroke can­ing avoid­ed by your departure?í

I tried to look surprised.

ëOh, Tim­o­thy, now please donít pre­tend you did not know,í Miss Sven­son went on. ëMrs Steel nev­er told me who it was but I recall it because she was most irri­tat­ed and ñ stay­ing touch as I did and do ñ it came up in con­ver­sa­tion. She said she had nev­er had a stu­dent fail to present him­self for a thrash­ing, and the inci­dent was a thorn in her side.í

Her voice was now show­ing signs of grow­ing annoy­ance, and I start­ed to feel dou­bly uncomfortable.

ëSome­how it comes as no sur­prise to dis­cov­er it was you.í She peered down at me stern­ly. ëCon­sid­er­ing the upset this caused, you should know that on her behalf I am extreme­ly cross!í

ëIím sorry,í I mut­tered. She did not look impressed though, so I added, ëMrs Steelís can­ings were always so painful, it was hard not to miss that last one when I knew I had the chance.í

ëI under­stand that. She was no less strict with me.í She smoothed her skirt over her bot­tom as she said this. ëHow­ev­er, I can proud­ly say that I nev­er weaselled myself out of one! Shame on you!í

I looked at my lap, and after a moment Miss Sven­son came and sat on the edge of the desk, right in front of me. ëWell, how for­tu­nate that I dis­cov­ered it while you were here. For now we can cor­rect the mat­ter, right now!í

ëW- what do you mean?í I stuttered.

ëI mean that I can give you the twelve strokes of the cane you missed all those years ago.í

I jumped to my feet. ëYou canít do that!í

Miss Sven­son stood up, her face full of fury. ëSit down!í she demanded.

Over­whelmed by her force, I obeyed. As soon as I had, we both knew she had won ñ just as she always did.

She walked to the door and locked it. ëIím sure we donít want any­one walk­ing in do we?í she said in expla­na­tion as she came back to the desk. Now, I want you stand up and bend over the bench with your hands grip­ping the bar tight. Do it now.í

She stood out of the way and like an automa­ton I did as I was told, shocked to find myself back over Mrs Steelís can­ing bench. My legs felt like jel­ly when I saw her walk to the cane cup­board and take out a senior cane. When she turned back to me, I heard her tut. ëNow Tim­o­thy. We both know that Mrs Steel gave pri­vate can­ings on the bare bot­tom so I expect to see those trousers and pants to be lowered.í

My face burn­ing with shame, I stood up and undid my belt, loos­ing my trousers and push­ing them along with my pants down before bend­ing over again.

ëLike most adult men, of course you need a good sound can­ing, and not just because you missed one all those years ago. You need one because it will do you the world of good. I am of the opin­ion that all adult males should have the cane applied to their bot­tom on reg­u­lar basis. In the last few years I have had oppor­tu­ni­ty to cane a num­ber of men and when I do, I do it with the inten­tion of mak­ing the recip­i­ent expe­ri­ence agony in his bot­tom at the time, and con­sid­er­able dis­com­fort when he sits for sev­er­al days after­wards. This is what you can expect from me. Do you understand?í

ëYes Miss Svenson,í I answered meekly.

ëGood. Now do you remem­ber the rules?í

Yes, Miss.í

ëRe­cite them then.í

ëìNum­ber one, I will count each stroke. If I mis­count or you do not hear, you will begin again. Num­ber two, I will not adjust my cloth­ing or rise from my posi­tion with­out per­mis­sion, or you will begin again. Num­ber three, I will not rub my bot­tom after pun­ish­ment, or you will begin again. Num­ber four, I will thank you on com­ple­tion of the pun­ish­ment, or you will begin again.îí

ëGood boy! I am so glad to see you remember.í

ëYes Miss,í I answered.

ëGood.í Miss Sven­son then picked up her cane and swung it back and forth, mak­ing it hum through the air. ëNow, take your can­ing well or we will repeat it.í

Miss Sven­son took up posi­tion to my left. I felt her line the cane against my bared bot­tom and sec­ond lat­er heard it swish up and back. It cut into my but­tocks like a line of fire and I let out a loud yelp. Miss Sven­son was obvi­ous­ly deter­mined to give me the sever­est can­ing she could. I knew I was going to suf­fer at her hands.

ëOne Miss,í I said obediently.

ëGood boy. Now here comes the second.í

The next fol­lowed and I howled and squirmed, but man­aged to count and stay in place. The next two were the same. How­ev­er, num­ber five struck me low down in the crease where my thighs meet my bot­tom and I lost con­trol and leaped to me feet. I quick­ly dropped back down but it was too late.

She tut­ted as she walked back around the desk and sat down. She crossed her legs, the cane flex­ing in her hands. ëThat is com­plete­ly unac­cept­able. I will not allow the set to be inter­rupt­ed. In a moment I will begin again, but I want you to con­sid­er that you already have five painful welts across your bot­tom, but are no near­er to the end.í Then she paused for a moment, before learn­ing for­ward and ask­ing, ëTell me, how does that make you feel?í

I was sweat­ing with the pain and my bot­tom was already very sore, so I answered hon­est­ly when I said, ëIím worried.í

Miss Sven­son frowned. Then stood up very swift­ly, swept around the desk, laid an almighty swipe across my bot­tom and said ëMISS!í

I squirmed and curled my leg. ëMiss, Miss!í

ëGood boy.í Miss Sven­son came and sat down fac­ing me again.

ëIím sor­ry, Miss,í I said more quietly.

ëThank you. That is bet­ter. I insist on good man­ners at all times. Now I am glad to hear you are wor­ried. You should be wor­ried. I want you to be wor­ried. I want you to be so wor­ried, that you are absolute­ly focused on my wish­es. Do you understand?í

ëYes Miss.í

ëGood. Then we will try againí. She stood up and resumed her posi­tion. ëYou will count the next stroke as num­ber one. Do you understand?í

ëYes Miss Svenson,í I said obe­di­ent­ly, try­ing to get into the right head space to get through it with­out mak­ing anoth­er error.

ëGood boy. If youíre lucky, you will walk out of here with only 18 welts on your bot­tom, but do not doubt that I will begin again if I need to.í

Miss Sven­son lined up and let fly the next stroke.

I screeched out my protest as the fire already in my bot­tom was re-lit.

Num­bers two, three, four five, and six arrived with­out hic-cup, spaced even­ly with per­haps a ten to fif­teen sec­onds in-between, but sev­en caught me by sur­prise and my hands came away from the edge of the desk. I groaned as I heard her sigh and tut, and walk back to sit down.

ëYou were doing so well. Now you have a thir­teen welts on your bot­tom. One more than you should be leav­ing here with, but yet again I am going to have to begin again, and that means you will have at least twen­ty five strokes to try and sit on tonight.í

ëI donít think I will be sit­ting tonight, Mis­sí I gasped, squirm­ing to try and relieve my throb­bing bottom.

ëOh but you will be,í she told me calm­ly. ëYou will, because once we have man­aged to make it through this old busi­ness, you are going to take me out to for din­ner and tell me all the things youíve been up to over the years. I cer­tain­ly donít think you should expect my atten­tion to your old debt with­out a dis­play of grat­i­tude, do you?í

I was stag­gered. Her arro­gance was amaz­ing, but as equal­ly attrac­tive — and my heart leaped that she might wish to spend time in my com­pa­ny. ëNo, Miss. That would be love­ly, Miss. Thank you.í

Miss Sven­son smiled. ëGood,í she said, still smil­ing at me, a man bend­ing over the desk in front of her, his red stripped bot­tom stick­ing out behind him. She leaned back; the epit­o­me of wom­an­hood, regard­ing me with inter­est and amuse­ment. ëHow is your bot­tom now, Timothy?í

ëItís very very sore Miss,í I replied.

She stood up and turned to walk to the mir­ror behind her. Exam­in­ing her fig­ure in it. Run­ning her hand over her stom­ach and the high waist of her skirt. The cane hang­ing down from the oth­er hand as she did, tap­ping gen­tly against her shin. ëYes, I imag­ine it is. But I must tell you that it most cer­tain­ly deserves to be. All men should be caned. Hard and regularly.í She glanced over her shoul­der at me. ëDo you like me can­ing you Timothy?í

ëI, I donít know Miss.í

ëThat is a curi­ous answer to per­haps a curi­ous question,í she said, turn­ing to face me. ëYou say you donít know?í

ëNo Miss. It hurts ter­ri­bly yetÖ it does not feel wrong. I feelÖ cared about I think.í

ëHmm. Inter­est­ing. You are right of course. When a woman canes a man, she does care about him. She would not both­er oth­er­wise. Oh, I will admit there is plea­sure in can­ing for can­ingís sake, for the art of it, but what is real­ly plea­sur­able is can­ing a man one wis­es to improve. One which she feels a desire to have an invest­ment in. See­ing him respond and fol­low oneís direction,í she went on. ëWhat do you think of that, Timothy?í

ëI think any man would be very lucky, Miss. To have such a ded­i­cat­ed guide and mentor.í

Miss Sven­son was obvi­ous­ly delight­ed with my reply. ëIn that case, I think I had bet­ter start that train­ing straight away, donít you?í Her voice then changed to become one both lov­ing yet very stern. ëStick your bot­tom up and out, Tim­o­thy, and call out the num­bers clear­ly. I have decid­ed to be extreme­ly severe with you. I have deter­mined to beat you very hard. I am going to have you back here every week and make you the man you should be!í

Yes Miss,í I said nervously.