Miss Elsa Svenson

Spanking & Caning in London with Miss Elsa Svenson

 
 

Spanking story competition 2 — entry 10 by Mark L!

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.

 

 

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