Miss Elsa Svenson

Spanking & Caning in London with Miss Elsa Svenson

 
 

Late…

Late

by

Claris­sa

Late again, yes, she knew she was late again; and it was for dou­ble maths, with Miss Prim. She was bound to get a tongue-lash­ing at least, she thought to her­self, as she laboured up the school dri­ve and start­ed across the rose gar­den. She glanced at her watch: five min­utes late had become ten, and she still hadn’t reached the block. She sighed, find­ing her­self flop­ping down on one of the orna­men­tal seats that lined the path. The ros­es were in full bloom: whites, yel­lows and the occa­sion­al splash of flam­ing crim­son; it was a beau­ti­ful sight. Twelve min­utes late now. What was she to do? If she wasn’t going (which, she realised now, she wasn’t) her best hope was that Prim wouldn’t miss her. Was that pos­si­ble? Or maybe she could pre­tend she had been sick? But for that you need­ed to go and see Matron, and that wasn’t going to hap­pen.

She stood up: she had bet­ter get her­self out of sight, she thought; it would be too bad to be caught by a teacher or sixth-for­mer now.  She head­ed across to the main school build­ing, then up the back stairs to the old art room, right at the very top. No one went there now – in fact, strict­ly, it was out-of-bounds.

She looked around the art room – what had once been a hive of activ­i­ty had now fall­en silent; dreams and ambi­tions cov­ered in dust sheets. She paced the floor­boards, rehears­ing pos­si­ble excus­es in her mind, the clock tick­ing relent­less­ly on. She looked again at her watch – quar­ter to one. Gina and Emma would be out of lunch now for sure; maybe she should go and see them?

She found them near the hock­ey pitch. ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘how’s things?’

Where the heck have you been?’ demand­ed Gina cross­ly, though her expres­sion denot­ed relief.

Just out and about,’ said Roz; ‘how was maths?’

Ter­ri­ble as usu­al,’ respond­ed Emma.

Did Prim miss me?’

She did ask if any­one knew where you were,’ con­tin­ued Emma, ‘and we said “No”.’

That was it?’

Yup.’

After­noon French went pret­ty much as usu­al: Roz enjoyed read­ing du Mau­pas­sant, and liked Made­moi­selle; she start­ed to for­get about what had hap­pened in the morn­ing. As the clock approached half three, how­ev­er, her stom­ach start­ed to tight­en.

There was the bell; she was so close now. She grabbed her bag and made for the door.

One moment please, Ros­alind’; it was the voice of Made­moi­selle.

She stopped in her tracks and turned round, as her friends filed past her.

Miss Prim wants to see you,’ con­tin­ued Made­moi­selle.

What, now?’ said Roz.

Yes, now please,’ said Made­moi­selle.

Roz sim­ply nod­ded.

Miss Prim was a woman in her thir­ties, but she dressed like a six­ty-some­thing librar­i­an – Prim by name, Prim by nature, thought Roz.

Why weren’t you in class today, Ros­alind?’ demand­ed Miss Prim, sur­vey­ing the school­girl with pierc­ing blue eyes.

Roz had of course antic­i­pat­ed this ques­tion; but her mind drew a blank.

Were you sick?’ con­tin­ued Prim.

Here was her chance; she could pre­tend she had been silent­ly retch­ing behind the bike sheds, but no, she couldn’t do it.

No.’

So?’

I’m afraid I was late,’ blurt­ed out Roz.

So you thought if you didn’t come at all maybe I wouldn’t notice – is that it?’

Yes,’ con­tin­ued Roz, then ‘sor­ry.’

Well,’ con­tin­ued Prim, ‘you have been a very fool­ish girl.’ Roz dropped her gaze.

If you had been late, I would of course not been very pleased,’ con­tin­ued Prim, ‘but,’ and now Roz felt her eyes burn­ing into her, ‘I would have dealt with it myself.’ A slight pause.

How­ev­er, as you have cho­sen to miss a les­son – and a dou­ble les­son at that – I have no choice but to send you to Miss Sven­son.’

Roz’s stom­ach hit the floor; sure­ly not the head­mistress – that could only mean one thing, and it was not good.

Please,’ she found her­self say­ing, ‘I won’t do it again,’ and now hot tears start­ed spilling uncon­trol­lably down her cheeks.

I’m sor­ry,’ con­tin­ued Miss Prim, ‘but Miss Sven­son is already expect­ing you: I’m afraid it’s just too late.’

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