But she sat down beside him.

A soft drink would have been fine. But a glass of cold, crisp wine felt right.

She might have offered shy, monosyllabic answers to his friendly comments. But she talked openly, frankly.

She could have offered up half-truths, ducking and diving through the conversation. Yet she felt calm, relaxed, strangely confident.

She might have invented a boyfriend, lurking in the shadows. But tonight was a night where she would start single, free.

She might have dodged his whispered question as to whether she had ever really been spanked; pretended it had floated away in the din of the bar. But she didn’t: and no, she hadn’t.

She didn’t need to go back after excusing herself to ‘visit the bathroom’. (Had he realised she’d merely gone to make her safe call?) Yet she glanced at him across the lobby, smiled, and walked back to his side.

She could have declined the invitation to dinner. But why not keep exploring? And his choice of restaurant demonstrated such impeccable taste!

The bottled water was well-chilled. Yet more wine would be nice, “Thank you.”

She could have pretended that she was perfect. But her list of flaws, her insecurities, her lack of self-discipline came rushing out.

She might have glanced at her watch, blaming an early meeting the following morning. But she was having fun; this was where she wanted to be. With whom she wanted it to happen.

She could have taken the cab herself; pecked him on the cheek, thanked him for a lovely evening, headed off alone across the city promising to call him. But she smiled, let him clamber across the back seat, then climbed in.

She could have accepted the offer of another drink in the hotel’s cocktail bar. But that wasn’t why she’d come.

The lift door opened on the seventh floor: she could always have stayed in. Yet she followed him out, willingly.

His cardkey slotted into the door; the green light flashed: she could have turned, fled. Yet she followed him in, willingly.

She could have gone to him, sought a hug. But his eyes had other plans.

“Take of your clothes.” She might have disobeyed the order, startlingly plain, startlingly clear, startlingly *now*.

Yet she merely delayed: “But the curtains are open, sir.”

“Then you may go and close them.” To her shock: “Once you have undressed.”

Yet she obeyed, once her garments had abandoned her for a pile on the floor.

She might have pretended to herself that the gentleman in the hotel room on the opposite side of the street had not seen her. But she’d caught the stranger’s eye as she drew the curtains.

She could have covered herself with her hands when she turned back around, protecting herself from his steady stare. But she returned his gaze, defiantly folding her hands behind her back.

She might have protested when she heard him reel off a list of the reasons why she needed to be punished, why she needed discipline. Yet he was playing back her own words, her own confessions from dinner. Unarguable.

She might have felt shocked by his, “So I shall start by spanking you.” Yet that was why she was here. Wasn’t it? (‘Start’? She didn’t ask). Even if the phrase sent a shiver down her spine.

She could still have gathered her clothes, could have walked past him when he told her to “Bend over my lap.” But she didn’t. And as she positioned herself, she felt strangely comfortable, strangely at home.

She might have wriggled, trying to escape the firm grip of the arm that had fallen across her back, as his hand made its first gentle, rubbing contact with her bare flesh. But she shuddered, with pleasure. And hoped he hadn’t noticed.

And the spanks, when they came, might not have hurt quite so much as they did in the stories and the mails and the blogs. But they did, more intensely than she had ever imagined.

She could have asked him to stop. But it felt good: knowing, at long, long last.

She might have been surprised, when he lifted her up and told her to bend over the back of the chair. But she knew what was to come, even before she heard the swish.

She might have begged for a lower count, when he informed her that she was now to be caned, and that he would adhere to the traditional six strokes. Yet traditions are sometimes meant to be upheld.

She might have felt calm, as she waited for the first blow to stripe her already-burning behind. But this wasn’t his hand: this was the cane.

And she’d read all about the cane. Yet nothing had prepared her for its scorching intensity.

She might have hoped that he would get it over with, speed up the next stroke. But she was still struggling to come to terms with the first.

She could have been misled, the agony of the first stroke merely resulting from it being her very first. But the second hurt still more. As did the third, fourth, fifth, his calm voice soothing even as the rattan seared.

She might have forgotten that in every story, the final stroke is the hardest. But through the haze of the excruciating, exhilarating pain, she remembered all too clearly. But nothing had prepared her for quite how hard it could be.

And she could have fled, when he told her to stand.

But she pressed herself against him, tight.

She might have continued the pretence of bravery.

But she moistened his shirt with her tears.

She could have dressed.

But she let him lead her, naked to the bed.

She might have curled up into a tight, defensive ball.

But she stretched out along him.

She could have averted her face from his kiss.

But it was too late for that, and she craved his touch.

Could have brushed away his fingers.

But it was too late for that too, and she craved his touch still more.

Could have smiled to herself as she pressed against him.

Which she did, no longer a girl merely imagining.

Never a man to suffer disrespect gladly, the interruption of his monologue by the tinkling of a mobile phone did not, as one might imagine, go down well. His evil gaze scanned the rows of Mitchell’s, the house whose girls sat in the front corner of the hall, intent on identifying the culprit. “Would the girl responsible please…”

The “…identify herself” section of his instruction went unheard, as the second call of the day rang out somewhere in the vicinity of Pearson’s, the house a little further to the left – immediately echoed by a shrill tone from Dean’s, and then from every quarter of the room a cacophony of incoming calls drowned out only by the laughter of the assembled girls, delighting in their carefully planned rebellion.

“Stop it… stop it… STOP IT NOW!” Not the most authoritative public statement from the master of all he was supposed to survey – the rising note of panic in his voice merely adding to the hysteria. Silence, he therefore determined, was the only option – standing, arms folded, until the revolution died down and calm slowly returned to his domain, punctuated only by the occasional uncontrolled giggle.

“How very… enterprising of you all,” he finally commented. “No doubt the shares of the telephone companies will be soaring on the stock exchange this morning with all of their extra revenue.” Had he expected laughter in response to his attempted witticism, he’d have been sorely disappointed. “And maybe those of you who do have mobiles might use them at morning break to inform their parents that the entire school will be held back for thirty minutes this evening. You will sit here in silence, and a detention will be placed on each of your school records. Oh, and please do turn off your phones: the owner of the next one to ring will be caned.”

He waited for a minute, as girls fumbled in blazer pockets to ensure their personal safety, and then continued: “Now, where were we? Ah yes: we were about to sing hymn number 184.”

You knew, even then, that it was bound to happen. Fate, dragging one of their number towards the abyss, chose its moment carefully after a few minutes of telephonic silence, pouncing just as the head prefect was reciting the list of the week’s academic awards: “A distinction to Sarah Crawley of Upper Four A in English, a merit to…”

To whom was drowned out by the phone’s chimes, quickly silenced as three hundred pairs of eyes telescoped in on the middle right-hand side of the hall.

“Would the girl whose phone just rang please stand.”

I mean, would you? Knowing the consequences?

“I’m waiting…”

And would be doing so for a long time, it seemed.

“…and if the girl responsible is too cowardly to own up, then the whole of her house will stay behind in detention for thirty minutes every night next week, in addition to our appointment this evening.”

So, slowly, unsteadily, she rose to her feet, red-faced and trembling. Gasps from those closest; queries from those furthest away, half-rising to their feet to get a clearer view of the condemned: “Who is it?” “Who was it?” “Elizabeth?” “Can’t be!” “Elizabeth Linley!” “OMG…!”

“Miss Linley. I’m really rather surprised, and not a little disappointed in you.” In a girl more used to the library than the detention room. In a girl whose elder sister had been head prefect just the year before. In a girl who, even as she stood amongst them, trembling hands held for comfort by her neighbours, looked as though she might be about to cry.

“Go and stand outside my study facing the wall, Miss Linley. I shall be with you in a few minutes’ time.”

She paused for a moment, as if too stunned to comprehend the order – then stumbled out of her row, half helped by and half falling over the girls that sat between her and the aisle, before beginning her long, oh-so-lonely walk. To the back of the hall, amidst stares both sympathetic and shocked. Out of the doors, swung open for her so politely and so flamboyantly by the deputy headmaster. And then entirely alone, along the deserted corridor to wait by the very final door, amidst the gloomy silence that fills a school when its pupils are otherwise engaged. To stand in the requisite spot, clenching and unclenching her fists; swallowing hard; biting her lip; shifting from foot to foot then remembering she should be still. And practising the lines for her negotiation.

She heard his footsteps, sharp against the stone floor, from the far end of the corridor – moments before the cacophony of the newly-released pupils followed as they emerged from the hall, frolicking and fighting their way back to their classrooms, the fate of their compatriot far from their minds. She stood straighter still, pressing her nose against the cold paintwork, not wanting to give him any cause for still graver disapproval. The butterflies in her stomach were careering into each other by now, drowned out only by her heart’s frantic drum beat.

He walked behind her – straight past, reaching for the door handle. “I shall see you in a moment, Miss Linley,” and the door closed firmly behind him. More time to wait, dragging it out: “Let me in to plead my innocence, to apologise for my mistake, to try to cling at whatever straws might save me”. Other girls were close by now, en route to their lessons – pointing, giggling nervously yet sharing wry amusement that such a girl would find herself in such a position. And then the door opened, and a disembodied voice boomed ominously from inside, begging no arguments: “Come in…”

She’d been into his office before, of course: when she’d come with her parents to be interviewed for a prized place in the school after doing so well in the entrance exams. When she’d come top of the year, two years ago and again last year: the headmaster did like to congratulate the high-performers in person. But then the chair had been facing his desk, ready for her to take a seat – not moved to the side. And his desktop had been devoid of the long, crook-handled cane which now took pride of place.

“Please, sir, I’m sorry…” He raised a hand to silence her, but her tongue was moving too fast: “I wasn’t part of the earlier stuff… It…”

Quietly, firmly, he interrupted: no negotiation broached here. “I won’t tolerate direct disobedience, Miss Linley, and I’d made myself very clear as to what would happen were another phone to ring. Now, I’d like you to remove your knickers, bend over in front of the desk, lift your skirt and then touch your toes.”

Flight? Fight more? She blinked, and made her silent resolution: “He’s right. I have no choice.” And, in a moment of dismayed clarity: “I deserve it.” Bracing herself, thinking of her big sister’s sterling achievements, not wanting to let her family down even more than she’d already done: “Please: let me brave enough to take it…”

And, to his surprise, she was. Most girls being punished for the first time tended to flinch, to stand, unable to take the shocking strokes. But Elizabeth? Goodness, but these were hard cuts – each parallel stripe delivered with a high backswing and a cruel flick of his wrist, the blow echoing around the room. Yet the girl stayed still, absorbing the shock and pain as if a veteran in this situation.

She was crying when she stood afterwards, as she adjusted her uniform: wiping the tears away with the back of her hand, as if she hoped he wouldn’t notice. But he did, of course – even if he’d keep his praise for her pluck for later, to share in the common room over morning coffee. For now, there was the final curt warning that she should, must learn from the experience and never repeat it, and the sharp dismissal: “I think you should be in Double History, isn’t that right? Don’t dally on your way. I shall check with Mr Franklin to make sure you reached his class on time.”

On time, that was, other than for leaning against the wall outside the girls’ changing room and finally letting herself dissolve. What had it been: a mere half hour to turn her from a paragon of apparent virtue to a girl whose record would forever be tarnished? The pain, too – oh, how it had hurt. Oh, how it still hurt – unimaginably, unbearably so.

And how it would hurt to knock on that door and walk in – ashamed – to that classroom, to the curious stares of her pupils; to field their questions, to try to shrug off their hugs (“because I’m OK, really I am”) and to make it through the day. Until she could run home and hide – and pray that her family would never find out…

Two years since she had last been summoned to the Headmaster’s office.

Two years since…

She tried to block it out of her mind.

Two years since he’d…

…since he’d punished her.

She knew from the other girls that she’d got off lightly. They’d told her. Teased her. ‘Cry baby Steph,’ they’d taunted, as she’d returned to the classroom, tear-stained and hurt, no longer the perfect angel who’d never been in trouble.

Only three strokes.

Only.

Yet every one of them was imprinted on her mind even more firmly now than it had been then, the shame and pain of each blow still fresh, still smarting.

She tried to picture what would be going on right now, behind that heavy door. How he’d be lecturing Susan, reaching for his cane, instructing her as to how to position herself for what was to come.

Think of something else. Think of the holidays. Think of walking along the river.

Think of Susan.

No… think of playing with the kittens at home. That essay she had to write.

Think of how Susan must be feeling now. Of how scared she’d been as they’d walked, together, from the classroom to his office. Knowing how they’d been caught, and what would await them. Think of how unconvincing Steph’s reassurances must have seemed.

Think of the book she had read last night. Of the film she was due to go and see tonight. Think of the…

Steph glanced at her watch. Susan had been in there nearly five minutes. Enough time, surely? Any moment now…

She straightened her tie. Stood up straight, smart, presentable.

This couldn’t be happening again. How could she have been so stupid? After last time.

Was it worse, knowing what was to come? The terror of the unknown, mixed with the hope that it couldn’t be *that* bad? Or the certainty born out of painful experience, that it could indeed be that bad. Worse.

And then the door was open, and a red-faced Susan was in front of her, avoiding eye contact, scarcely able to utter the ‘He asked you to go in.’

And in a whirl, she was inside, and the door was closed, and he was sitting in his armchair, the cane on his desk (if anything looking more fearsome than in her memories), the sunlight flooding into the room.

And she stood, arms by her side. Waiting for him to begin.

He looked at her, his gaze drawing her eyes to his. ‘You’ve been to my study before, Stephanie, I seem to recall.’

‘Yes, Sir.’ Trying to stay calm, trying to be brave.

‘When was that?’

‘Two years ago, Sir.’ The sixteenth of June, to be precise, at 10.15 in the morning.

‘Mmmm.’ The Headmaster looked over at his bookcase, and pointed to a set of leather-bound volumes. That set. In which her name had been inscribed, a record for all time.

‘Bring me the one for two years ago.’

Nervously, she looked along the row, finding the right book and passing it to him, hands trembling.

‘Any idea when exactly?’

‘At the start of the summer term, Sir.’

He flicked over the pages, and ran his finger down the list of names. ‘Yes, indeed. I remember now.’ (Did he, she wondered? Did he really remember, as she remembered?). ‘And yet here you are again, back here, if my records are correct, for precisely the same offence?’

She sniffed, and hung her head. ‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Your friend told me that it was her idea to leave the school premises this lunchtime to go shopping. Is that true?’7

Thank you, Susan. Thank you. ‘It… it sort of was.’

‘Sort of?’

‘Well…’ What could she say? What if she disagreed with Susan’s version of events? ‘Well, we were both talking about this new CD that was out today, and we kind of looked at one another and both… Well, I mean…’

He paused, watching her. ‘And what did I tell you last time you played truant, when we had our… conversation… up here?’

She bit her lip, unable to find the words.

He prompted her, firmly. ‘I’m surprised you don’t remember.’

‘I do remember, Sir, really I do, and I know that it was stupid and….’ Her voice trailed off. And please don’t cane me, Sir, she wanted to say. Please don’t make me bend over. Please don’t lecture me, and tell my parents, and…. I’ll be a good girl, really I will.

‘You’re a bright lass, Steph. One of the best. And I so dislike it when the nice girls in the school end up before me like this. When they let themselves down. Do you appreciate that?’

She nodded, resisting the momentary urge to tell him that if he disliked it so much, he could stop and let her go.

He walked around the desk, and stood in front of her, addressing her softly. ‘But you know that we have rules, which are designed to make the school a safe and happy place. And that it’s my duty as Headmaster, no matter how difficult it may be at times, to have to deal with those who infringe the rules.’

Very quiet now: ‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And that Susan has taken her punishment, and I must discipline you as well?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Get on with, please, and put me out of my misery.

Keep talking, please, don’t make me bend over.

The Headmaster turned, and picked up the cane. ‘Let’s get this over with, shall we? Hang your blazer neatly on the door, remove your panties and skirt, and bend over the desk. You know the routine, I’m sure.’

But… but… surely… ‘But Sir, I was allowed to keep my panties on last time.’

‘And you are now in the Sixth Form, my dear girl, and I am surprised you’re not familiar with the school rules. We cane sixth-formers on the bare. As they should know better.’

As if it could be *worse* than last time. As it that were possible.

Meekly, shocked, she followed his instructions. Bared herself, thankful that he politely averted his gaze. He stepped behind her, the two of them dancing towards their respective positions as she moved towards the desk. She leant forwards, the wood cold against her thighs, her hands folded neatly on her back as he had taught her last time.

He measured the cane across her, reminding her how it would stripe her when he whipped it down. ‘Since the three strokes that I gave you last time were clearly insufficient to prevent a repetition of your truancy, I shall be giving you the full six this time.’

‘But I promise…’

‘You said that last time, Steph.’

And he drew the rod back, and whipped it down, and she howled. Howled with the unbearable pain. Howled at the humiliation. Howled in disbelief that this could be happening again. Howled in fear at the fact that there were five more to follow.

She had to be brave. WHACK.

Had to be grown-up.

Long pause.

THWACK.

Biting her lip, feeling the tears welling up. Trying to blank her mind – as if that were possible as the cane descended once more against her, a fourth stroke even more painful than its predecessors.

Hear his voice, distant, telling her that there were only two more to go, that she should brace herself and be brave.

Feeling the rod tap gently, then swish down once more, directly overlaying the previous stroke and taking her pain levels new heights… or depths…

And only one to go, and then it would be over, and she could escape, and hide, and see Susan, and…

Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

And the last was the worst. As it had been last time. As she guessed it might always be. A guess she hoped, feared, knew that she would never have to validate in a repeat visit.

He was kind, afterwards. As he had been last time. Turning away as she dressed, fingers shaking as she struggled to make herself presentable, whilst wiping away the tears. Filling in the punishment record quickly, recounting the details of the caning that he had just inflicted: the date, her name, her class, the number of strokes. The offence. (How could she have been so stupid? How could the day have turned out so different, so much worse than she could have feared in her worst nightmare the previous night?)

And then he told her that he was confident that she would not be returning. That he hoped that she would learn, and remember, and see through the rest of the term without incident.

That she should go directly to her classroom, and rejoin her lesson.

That it was over.

But so typical of Alan, she thought as she pulled on her coat, to drag her away from comfort. Cocooned in the cosy hotel drawing room, pampered by the ever-so-attentive yet always-discrete staff, she’s been warm, cosy, safe. She’d protested, in that childlike way that had won him around so often in the past: “But it’s coooooold”, mentally stamping her feet.

Yet he’d led her away – her agent and the lawyers left to ponder the detail of the contract, whilst the director dragged her outside.

It’d been like this on the last shoot. She was a star, for goodness sake. People came to see her, to adore her. He was just the director. Well, not ‘just’, of course. Three Oscars: real, solid, actual Oscars, not like her mere nominations, even if two trips up the red carpet were more than a girl her age could have rightly expected. (I’m gonna win one day. This time. This movie. I know it).

But non-stop. Do this. Come here. Change that. Stop! Go!

Did she want all that again? She’d proved herself. She could do it.

Yet what a script… No more corsets (although, as she smiled to herself, she did look very good in a corset). Period dramas? Last year’s trend, my dear. You should see what she’s working on now…

And Nicole would be so envious. (“I got casted. My role. Hah!”).

He met her at the top of the steps, wrapped in his grey overcoat. An arm around her. Loving? Protective? Controlling? Whatever… it felt good.

He propelled her towards a bench, facing back towards the manor house. Far enough away to see faces at the windows; far enough distant not to be overheard.

“Happy?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Excited.”

“I thought you would be. That’s why I wanted you for the part.”

“It’s strange, though, isn’t it? Here we are, all country house hotels and luxuries and fawning waiters, yet we’re talking about all these horrible things.”

“Are you sure you’re tough enough?”

Tough enough? Hey, she’d show him. I can do tough. I did tough at school, when I had to. I may be successful, but I’m not that sheltered, you know.

She nodded. “Some of the scenes worry me a bit. When she gets captured and…” She let the sentence trail. They both knew what the ‘and’ entailed. ‘And’ a closed set, ‘and’ as few crew as possible, ‘and’ huge amounts of comfort and re-assurance afterwards. Inevitably, it wouldn’t just be a character in a movie who felt humiliated, abused.

“It didn’t have the plot in mind.”

She turned to him, looking at him closely. Falling silent. Studying the stone flags in front of her closely.

They sat in silence for hours. Or so it seemed. Minutes, more like. Seconds, even, before his arm returned to her shoulder.

She tried to banish the images from her mind; she knew he must have similar pictures engraved in his mind, from oh-so-different an angle.

Remembered his steady, unflinching gaze as she’d lowered her panties. Strong, focused, sparing her no embarrassment.

Remembered her fingertips in the deep carpet.

Felt her bare thighs against his woollen trousers.

Felt… every moment that she wanted to forget, but so needed to remember.

Felt the warmth of his shoulder afterwards, as she nestled into his linen jacket.

“I’ll do the same again if I have to, you know?”

She bit her lip and nodded. Felt a hundred eyes on the set afterwards: had they know? Had they heard?

Felt the linen sheets against her, cooling the pain. Felt the moisture of her tears on the pillow.

He continued: “Only this time I’m going to start as I mean to go on.”

Softly: “Meaning?”

“Meaning that if you think you’re going to behave like you did for much of our last shoot together, you’re sorely mistaken. Very sorely. I’m going to monitor every ounce of your being from day one, this time. How you stand. How you breathe. How you behave. And…”

She felt the warmth of his arm around her.

She wanted this. So much.

The role.

The praise, the cheering fans.

Wanted to be taught how to succeed. By him.

“And…”

She leant her head against his chest, nodding. “I know… Promise I’ll try.”

And he stood, propelling her to her feet. “Then we have a contract to sign and a movie to make, my dear.”

The routine was the same: “My apologies, but Mr. ……. asked me to deliver an urgent message.” And the crisp envelope would be passed over to the teacher; the audience would hang on tenterhooks as if watching some awards ceremony in reverse – no winner of a statuette being revealed here, but rather the pronouncement of which girl was destined to face a most uncomfortable encounter.

And the teacher would shake his head solemnly, scanning the expectant, nervous faces. A pause for effect? A solemn revelation of the verdict: “It appears that Miss ….. is required in her Housemaster’s study.”

Sometimes the girl would be expecting it: all eyes would have swivelled to her as the prefect entered the room. So it was true? And he was going to cane her? And she’d be nervously tidying the pile of books on her desk even before her name echoed through the room, any vain hope extinguished by the sound of the knocks.

And on other occasions?

The moment of disbelief. Did he say me? The questions – what for, or (maybe) how did he know? The burning cheeks, embarrassed at the shocked stares of her classmates. Legs turning to stone, scarcely able to carry her to the door.

That long, long walk along the empty corridors, practising her excuses and her pleas for mercy, trying not to contemplate what would happen were they to prove unsuccessful.

“Miss Barlow.”

Which rather took Jennifer aback, that Friday morning, then shocked her to the core as she realised what must have happened.

–

He usually offered girls a seat, as they discussed their report cards or their options for classes the following year. Made them feel welcome, at home, relaxed.

Not today. Today he’d left her standing, as he played with the letter in his hands.

“So I thought that I should perhaps call your father. Check with him that you had the ‘flu yesterday, necessitating a day off school but resulting in a most miraculous restoration of good health. Reassure myself that there’s nothing untoward going on.”

But a call wouldn’t reassure him. And Jenny didn’t want her father to know. Not now. Not ever.

“You don’t need to, sir. I mean, he’ll be in meetings…”

Her Housemaster raised an eyebrow.

She blustered on. “And he’ll just tell you that everything’s OK anyway, so I don’t see the need.”

“He will, will he?” He looked at the file on the desk. “531 7625.” Lifted the handset; started to punch in the numbers. Slowly, watching her reaction. Reading the digits as he went.

5

3

1

7

6

“No, sir.”

“No, sir? No what, sir?”

“No, he won’t tell you that he signed the letter, sir.”

“And why would that be, Miss Barlow?”

She covered her face in her hands. “Because he didn’t write it, sir.”

“I know he didn’t write it.”

“Sir?” Puzzled.

“I know he didn’t sign it, because I have several copies of his handwriting in your file, none of which matches this particular document. And I can imagine why he didn’t sign it, because Mr. McKelvey saw you leaving the pub on Wednesday evening being propped up by two of your friends, in a state of what he described as ‘total inebriation’.”

He shook his head. “Not even the best medicines deal with the flu that quickly, Miss Barlow. So do tell me the truth, for a change.”

That smarted. “For a change?” She was a truthful girl; honest; trustworthy. Usually.

“I wasn’t feeling well, sir. I’d been up most of the night. And I didn’t want my father to know I’d been to the pub.”

“But you’re eighteen? He can’t stop you.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. But he doesn’t like me going.” Doesn’t like? Yes, that would be one (very understated) way of putting it.

“So you thought you would blame your hangover on the ’flu, and forge his handwriting?”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“I’m sure.” He stood; she always forget how tall he was. “Well, let’s get this dealt with. Bend over and touch your toes.”

Just like that? So sudden? She’d imagined some long drawn-out discussion. Forms to complete, lengthy lectures. An explanation of the procedure. A right of appeal. And yet now her fingers were brushing the cold black leather, the carpet was looming large, he was already walking behind her, and…

“Four strokes of the cane for missing a day’s school in such disgraceful circumstances.” And the first cut down on her before she’d really absorbed what he’d been saying. But she most certainly absorbed his message: not like the familiar belt, but striping a line across her, burning, engulfing her backside with pain.

And somehow, from the tales the other girls had told, she imagined the process taking forever. Long pauses; stern words. But the second stroke landed, and then the third, and before she knew it he was telling her to stand, and she was clutching her behind. And that was the other thing she’d never imagined: that it could hurt so badly.

Wiping away a tear, she apologised.

“The best apology will be if you learn from the experience, Miss Barlow,” came the retort as he returned the cane to its home beside his filing cabinet.

“Yes, sir, I will.”

“Now, Miss Barlow, we have a rule here with which you may be familiar that no girl may receive more than six strokes of the cane in any given day. So although we have dealt with your unauthorised absence, we will have to hold over punishing you for forging your note until Monday. Please report to me at morning break. And I should warn you that girls who lie are always punished on the bare.”

Monday? Bare? “But sir….”

“Thank you, Miss Barlow, that will be all.” And he reached into his drawer, pulled out a sheaf of marking, and studiously ignored her until she left.

–

The other girls were kind, even if she found their curiosity – the lowering of her knickers in the bathroom, the admiration of her stripes – to be intensely humiliating. But it was the done thing – the other girls’ perceived badge of bravery, her badge of shame. They hugged, cuddled, provided comforting chocolate, folded spare school sweaters for her to sit on for the afternoon.

But they couldn’t know about Monday.

They went shopping together on Saturday: Zara, H&M, Top Shop, Pizza Hut. They still hugged, smiled, supported.

But they couldn’t know about Monday.

They went to the cinema on Sunday. She couldn’t concentrate. They’d already forgotten.

And they couldn’t know about Monday.

Tomorrow…

Today…

A magnetic force held her back from entering the school gates; somehow she conquered it.

The Headmaster read out his customary list in the start-of-the-week assembly. Her name included, placed on public record: one of three convicts to have received the punishment of the court. No secrets here; no hiding. (And if one of them were to mention it to parents, and said parents were to tell her father…? Please, no…)

Mrs Thomas noticed her absent-mindedness in French.

Mr Chisolm commented on her lack of concentration in Maths.

Dr Tudor expressed disappointment at her wrong answers in History.

But they couldn’t know about morning break.

That was between her, and her Housemaster. He wasn’t there when she arrived; the seconds turned to minutes, the minutes turned to hours before he joined her and let her in. “Ah, Miss Barlow. Our unfinished business. I don’t think we have anything further to discuss, do we? Shall we get this over with?”

And no, they didn’t. Other than his instruction, this time, to remove her knickers and lift her skirt before bending over. His reminder that dishonesty was something of which he greatly disapproved, and his proclamation that “Six strokes is the only punishment that can be deemed appropriate in the circumstances.”

She could take them, though. She’d spend the weekend conquering the demons of her memories of Friday’s strokes; the stripes were still there, but the pain hadn’t been that bad, had it? Had it? Try and believe it, Jenny; that way you’ll get through.

And, as it turned out, they hadn’t been that bad. Not compared to these. The very first stroke brought tears to her eyes; excruciating, agonising, astonishing. By the third, she was crying. Not that that made him ease up, each blow in the sequence seemingly harder than its predecessor, until a sixth that made her cry out at the top of her voice.

He bade her adjust her uniform. “Let’s hope we don’t have to repeat this, Miss Barlow.” And this time, a gentle squeeze of her shoulder as he showed her out of the door, as if trying to comfort her to ease all of the discomfort he had just inflicted.

Her friends asked where she’d been. Noticed, despite the basin of cold water liberally applied to her face, that she’d been crying. But they couldn’t know; she couldn’t bear it.

At least, not until the following Monday. When she walked into assembly; when the Headmaster took the rostrum. When he started to read out the weekly roll of dishonour. When her name came first…

She’d walked – ashamed, hurting – to the back of the classroom, pausing to summon up the courage to lower her bottom onto the hard wooden chair. She so wanted to cry, but knew that her tears must be kept for later, in private – after she’d presented the punishment slip to her doubtless-disapproving housemaster, to be added to her school record.

Millie, next to her, squeezed her hand. Other girls flicked supportive glances her way, silently mouthing their are-you-OKs. A note passed surreptitiously from desk to desk – Erin, her best friend, seated at the front of the class, offering her condolences and her love: “My darling Poppy. That looked awful. He was a right bastard: you were so brave. Hugs later. You alright? xxx”

“Yeah. Fine. Not as bad as it looked. Didn’t hurt much. Old fool must be losing his touch! xxx” – a reckless reply, given the need to convey the folded paper back across the room. The master had spotted the reply winging its ill-fated way almost as soon as it had left the punished girl’s grasp; he’d monitored its progress, choosing his moment to pounce.

He unfolded the missive; read the correspondence slowly to himself, shook his head as if in sorrow – and beckoned Erin to stand.

“I simply won’t tolerate that sort of comment.”

“Sorry, sir.” Meaning it, her whispered apology tinged with dread.

He turned, picked up the cane. “I think you know the procedure…”

“Please…?” But he merely rapped the desk with the rattan and waited. She stepped forward, paused, looked at him in the vain hope of a last-minute reprieve – and then lowered her knickers, lifted her skirt and leant forward.

Poppy averted her eyes as her friend was punished. Punished! For the very act of friendship. She bit her lip, counting the six, knowing how Erin – far less used to the taste of the rod – must be suffering. And then her friend was being dismissed, the master’s hastily-scribbled report of her strokes clutched in her trembling hands, and he could turn his attention to unfinished business.

“Poppy Reynolds.”

“Sir…?” He couldn’t… He wouldn’t…

“Stand when I’m talking to you, young lady!”

“Yes, sir.” She rose to her feet, heart pounding at the realisation that standing was merely a prelude to another long, lonely march to the front of the classroom.

“You’ve just seen what happens to pupils who insult me. And this time, I shall make sure it hurts. Come out here and bend over, and we’ll see whether the old fool can get his touch back…”

In memory of Alex Birch

I walk over to you, standing close behind, my hands on your hips. I whisper in your ear, my breath warm against your skin. “So this time it’s not a game. Not like last time. This time you already know what it feels like to be disciplined. Albeit gently. And yet you have persisted with your behaviour. Do you understand me?”

You nod, the long, stern lecture having made its impression on your mind in the same way that they cane shortly will on your behind. Imprinted itself. Left its mark.

And my hand reaches to your side. Unbuttons your skirt, slides down the zipper. Allows the garment to fall, crumpled, to the floor.

My fingers entwine themselves in the elastic of your panties, sliding underneath against your bare, cool skin. Then I pull away, walk to the armchair and sit down. “Turn around.”

You obey. Your face still defiant, despite the tears from the earlier lecture still staining your face.

I point at your panties. “You will be flogged on the bare. Please get ready.”

I sit and observe. And where do you look? Downcast, at the floor, as you hesitate, then slowly, nervously remove the garment, stripping yourself to my gaze. Before you place your hands firmly back on your head, and meet my eyes, defiant.

I stand, taking the cane from the bed. Stand close to you, our faces almost touching. Each of us, breathing the other’s anticipation. I gesture to the space in front of the window: “Now.”

And you pause again, before walking past me, head held high, but trembling. Remembering my earlier instructions, you stand with your legs apart, and lean yourself forward. Hands touching toes. The traditional pose; that space into which so many have gone before.

I step past you, and draw the curtains. “Your offences may have been committed in public. But perhaps we should deal with your punishment in private.” And then, standing in front of you, looking down at your doubled-up body, I lean gently forward; silently touching your hair, stroking the back of your neck.

You murmur a quiet, “I’m sorry, sir,” as I walk round to my position. I don’t respond. At least, not verbally; expressing my response instead with that first, biting whack of the rod. Making you gasp, then howl. Perhaps you hadn’t thought I was serious when I’d told you that your previous punishment had been gentle. Perhaps you hadn’t believed me when I told you how much more intense the strokes would be when they fell on bare flesh, not over your clothes. Perhaps you hadn’t, really, thought I would come back.

And having told you that you would experience a true caning, would understand why the instrument is so respected and so feared, I feel that I owe a duty to you – and to the cane itself – not to compromise.

WHACK. Not to compromise the strength of the strokes. WHACK. Not even as I watch your pale skin stripe, and mark. WHACK. Not even as I hear you yelp and tell you, firmly, to keep silent.

WHACK. Not even as you mutter your apologies, beg me to stop as I promise to continue. WHACK as I know that your begging hides that mix, as you plead for the flogging to relent and yet…. WHACK…. need to be punished.

WHACK. WHACK. WHACK. As I layer three harsh strokes on top of each other, your tears now flowing freely. Crying, sobbing, pleading.

Has the punishment taken you far enough? Too far? I lay down the cane, and run my fingers over your hot, bruised buttocks, tracing the red ridges from one side to the other. Praise you for your bravery. Hear you squeal, at the intense agony of my touch. And as my fingers dance around your skin, hear you gasp, too, in a different way.

I take the cane once more. Close behind you now, I run its tip against the inside of your thigh, and tap it slowly backwards and forwards, from side-to-side. The metronome continues, yet sliding imperceivably higher, then higher still, then higher still. Higher to the point where there is no place for it to slide from side-to-side; only to stop, and press, and then take up its rhythm once more, only this time up and down, softly and not so softly, gentle and yet hard.

“Do you feel properly punished,” I ask, your “Yes” in response part confirmation, part sigh, part shudder. And I draw back, measuring the cane once more, low down, and whip it across you so hard, yet so tenderly. Yet even as you cry out, I throw away the rod, my fingertips once more caressing, my voice re-assuring.

And as I press gently against your stripes, then stroke and comfort, then place my hands firmly on your hips, I ask clearly: “And do you know what needs to happen next?”

“Yes. Please.”

And my hands slide around your front. Lifting you upwards. Letting you press your back against me. Letting you feel me.

And I turn you around, cup your face in my hands. Kiss you.

Lead you over to the bed. And inflict on your body a pleasure even more exquisite than the pain that had gone before.

Matt had clutched her to him, their hearts pounding. He turned off the light, then put his index finger to his lips, and quietly whispered: ‘Shshhh,’ as Rachel quickly pulled her blouse back on, hands shaking. To be caught after lights out, out of bounds, with her boyfriend, having been to the pub, having been smoking…. no, it didn’t bear thinking about. And then the footsteps drew nearer: doors further along the corridor were opened and closed… With nowhere to hide in the small, shelf-lined room, Matt wedged his foot against the door, leaning against it.

The footsteps stopped: whoever it was must be right outside the room. Rachel watched as the door handle turned, but Matt’s weight prevented it from opening. And then… the door flew back, pushing Matt out of the way, the light was switched on… and she found herself staring into the eyes of Simon Jones. Simon Jones… Head Prefect of Burlington School.

And more to the point: Simon Jones… her former boyfriend, from whom she had parted so acrimoniously at the end of the previous term. And for whom she still… cared. A great deal. Missed, even, despite all of the arguments and tension that had led them to break up.

Simon looked Rachel up and down, taking in her untucked blouse and flustered appearance. Then he gestured at Matt: ‘Who’s he?’ Hesitantly, stumbling over her words, she replied… ‘A friend… Matt Grove. He lives in the village.’ Oh damn, damn, DAMN: why had he had to find them like this?

‘So what are you doing on Burlington School property, Mr. Grove?’ Mr. Grove! Goodness, Rachel thought – they were only 18. Simon could be pompous at times.

‘I decided to walk Rachel home.’

‘From where?’

‘From the… from the village’. Thank goodness he hadn’t said pub!

‘And?’ Simon looked at them both.

A pause… ‘And?’ Matt replied.

‘And you walked her back to the School front door, but took a wrong turn and happened to end up with her in a storeroom in the basement?’ Simon queried. Rachel had forgotten how sarcastic he could be.

There was silence. They all looked at one another. Then Simon spoke. ‘Well, Mr. Grove, perhaps you had better follow us up the stairs, and I will show you the way out..’ He gestured to Rachel to go ahead, then to Matt, and reached for the light switch, having a last look round the small room. He stopped, and reached over to the shelf: ‘Oh don’t forget your cigarettes, Mr. Grove. I’m sure Miss Fox won’t want them, and it’s a shame to waste them.’

Rachel’s heart pounded as they walked up the stairs, and out onto the ground floor corridor. Simon took the way, and they followed him towards the side door. Simon opened it, and showed Matt out into the cold night, with a final sneering comment at the back of the departing figure ‘Don’t come back, Mr. Grove, there’s a good chap.’

He shut the door, and turned to Rachel. ‘Well, Miss Fox…’

‘Simon, please…’

‘Please what?’

‘Please… I mean… we weren’t doing anything wrong.’ Rachel was shaking now, terrified at the possible consequences of this. After the Headmaster’s warning in assembly the previous morning about the clamp down on disciplinary matters that he was going to personally impose, she knew she could be in real trouble. Goodness, she might even get suspended. Her parents would never forgive her.

‘Not doing anything wrong?’

‘No. Please, Simon. Come on – we’re still friends aren’t we?’

They looked one another in the eyes, Rachel seeking out some sign of warmth, or friendliness. Simon stepped back: ‘Miss Fox, I’m not sure what you class as ‘doing nothing wrong’, but as I read the situation I found you out of bounds, after lights out, with cigarettes, smelling of alcohol,’ (oh God she though he’s noticed), ‘half undressed, with someone who is not a member of the School, who you had brought into the building without permission. That’s quite a bit wrong, as I see it.’

‘Please….’ Rachel could feel herself on the verge of tears. ‘Please… don’t send me to the Headmaster.’

Simon paused.

‘Oh don’t worry. I won’t. I can think of far more effective ways of dealing with this.’

‘Like… like what?’

He hesitated again. He was enjoying this, she could tell. ‘Have you ever been caned, Miss Fox?’

‘WHAT?’

‘I said, have you ever been caned?’

No. No. He couldn’t. He couldn’t be serious. ‘No, Simon, please, don’t be silly.’

‘Miss Fox, I am not being silly. As you well know, the Head Prefect has the authority to use corporal punishment on pupils on occasions where he feels it to be appropriate. And on this occasion, I feel it to be appropriate.’

‘You can’t…. No. I mean, that’s only for the boys – you can’t do that to the sixth-form girls.’

‘Can’t I? I seem to remember noticing that in the school rules. In fact, I remember noticing it quite clearly. ‘Authority to use corporal punishment on pupils’. Nothing about ‘except girls’.’

She studied him carefully, through a mist of tears. ‘But that must have been before they let girls into the school. Look, Simon. I know we split up… but you don’t have to be silly about this.’

‘The fact that we went out with one another has nothing to do with it. I’m merely following the rules. Being kind to you, in fact: if I sent you to the Head you’d get caned and then expelled for this, and you wouldn’t want that two months before A Levels.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ll see you outside the prefects’ room at 4.30pm tomorrow. Don’t be late. And now it’s time you went to bed.’

Simon turned sharply, and walked away, hoping that Rachel could not see the grin that was crossing his face. He could hardly believe his luck. He was still bitter about the way she had finished with him just before Christmas. After six months as a couple, it surely hadn’t been unreasonable of him to want more than just a few kisses, no matter how passionate they had been. And yet she rebuffed his every advance, steering his straying hands away whenever they ended up in an embrace. And as for sleeping together – well, that had been well and truly off tthe agenda. And then the big argument about it, and Rachel telling him that she’d had enough of him, that he was boring her, that she didn’t like the way he pawed at her all the time. Frigid little cow. And yet there she’d been tonight, as he did his usual patrol of the school buildings before going to bed, hiding away furtively with some local lad and her blouse half-way off. Well, he thought, tomorrow he’d show her who was boss.

As for Rachel, she felt like she was in a daze as she stood and watched Simon stride off. This was just too awful. No, it wasn’t just awful; it just wasn’t acceptable. He couldn’t do this to her.

Could he?

She walked slowly back to the dormitory that she shared with three other girls. And the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that Simon would indeed try to go through with his threats, and the more worried she became…

–

The events of that following afternoon will long be etched in the memory of those who were involved.

4.27pm… Rachel arrives outside the prefects’ room, shaking, scarcely able to believe that this is happening to her. She stands outside the door, nervously, several younger boys looking surprised to see one of the senior girls waiting in line for the prefects.

Five minutes pass, and then the door swings open. Peter Corrigan, one of the other prefects, beckons Rachel inside. She steps inside to see two of the other prefects talking to Simon.

Simon and the three others sit down in their armchairs, telling Rachel to stand in front of them while they agree her punishment. Simon picks up a large leather-bound book, and tells Rachel that, as required under the school rules, he is going to record her beating in the Discipline Log, and that it will be witnessed by the other prefects. She hangs her head in shame, and increasing fear, as he lists out her offences.

‘Firstly, visiting a local pub in term-time without permission. Three strokes. Secondly, bringing an unregistered visitor onto School premises. Two strokes. Thirdly, smoking. Three strokes. Fourthly, being out of bounds, after lights out. Four strokes. And given your state of dischevellement when I walked into the room last night, I am minded to add a fifth punishment for engaging in sexual activity on school premises. But then I know you are not that kind of girl, Rachel, don’t I?’ He laughed. ‘So then. Three – four five – six seven eight – nine ten eeleven twelve. Twelve strokes. Have you anything to say before we start?’ He stood up, and started to remove his gown and jacket.

This was unreal… so awful. ‘Simon, PLEASE. You can’t do this to me.’

‘Well I’m afraid I can, and I will. So let’s get on with it, shall we? I can’t hang around all day. Put your jacket and skirt over the arm of that chair.’

‘What?’

‘I said, put your jacket and skirt over the arm of that chair.’

‘But you can’t……’

‘NOW.’

Still she hesitates.

‘Rachel.’ He sounds threatening. ‘I said now, and I mean now. One second more and I will take you to the Head, and believe you me he’ll give you twice as many strokes and expel you into the bargain. So get on with it.’

She slips out of her jacket, and – terrified now – kicks off her shoes, undoes the button on her skirt, and unzips the side, letting it fall to the floor. She picks the garments up and lays them over the side of the armchair, noting the others watching her every move.

You could cut the tension in the air with a knife.

Simon walks over to the cupboard in the corner of the room. Rachel’s eyes follow him, and watch as he opens it, and pulls out a cane. He turns to face her, holding its curved handle, and she watches aghast as he flexes the rod in his hands.

‘I’d like you to stand over by the fireplace, pull down your knickers, and bend over and touch your toes.’

‘WHAT?’

‘I said, stand by the fireplace, take down your knickers, and touch your toes. Which bit of that couldn’t you follow?’

‘But.. you can’t ask me to undress like this.’

He looks her in the eye. ‘I think you misunderstand. I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.’

‘But Simon…’

‘My dear, the Head Prefect always canes on the bare. Now get in position and take them off, before I have to do it for you.’

Rachel walks over towards the old stone fireplace. Carefully, making sure she is facing away from Simon and the other three prefects, she reaches her hands under the elastic, and slides her knickers downwards her knees. Her lips tremble, as she fights back the tears. She bends forward, and reaches her fingertips down towards her toes, legs tight together.

She feels Simon walking up behind her. She feels so alone, so vulnerable. Everything around seems very silent.

Simon looks at her, taking in her partial nudity, remembering how she had always rejected his advances in the past. He would show her. This was going to teach her not to reject him. God, was he going to make this a hard flogging.

He outlines the rules. ‘Miss Fox. I am going to give you twelve strokes of the cane. You are not to cry out, or to flinch, and if you do I will – at my discretion – decide not to count tthe stroke in question. And you should count each stroke aloud after I have delivered it. Do I make myself clear?’

Quietly, feebly: ‘Yes.’

He pauses, flexing the cane in his hands, allowing the sense of dread anticipation to rise. He moves closer now, behind her and to her left, and lifts his right arm high, holding the cane in the air, pausing, and then cracks it down with all his might, tracing an arc with it so as it lands perfectly, straight across the centre of her buttocks, cracking against her pale skin.

He pulls the cane away, hearing Rachel’s sharp intake of breath, and pitiful cry: ‘Owwwwwwww.’ She half sobs, as the unbelievable pain starts to radiate across her buttocks along the line that the rod has marked. She takes a sharp breath in, and remembering just in time, whispers: ‘One.’

Simon pauses, letting the full impact of the stroke take effect, then whips the stick down on her again, just below the previous stroke. Quickly this time, she counts: ‘Two’, uttering the word almost before the pain has hit her, before it has started to burn its way out along its path.

He takes in the two parallel, red lines, watching as they rise up angrily. Again he pauses: ten seconds, fifteen maybe. And delivers the third stroke, low down, right at the bottom of Rachel’s buttocks, almost on her thighs. She howls: ‘AAAAAAA,’ and then he hears her breathing in and out, deeply, trying to find a way to cope with the agony. Almost inaudibly: ‘Three’.

The fourth stroke, landing higher up, has the same effect. CRACK! A little scream. The soft, quiet counting of the stroke. Simon beginning to be impressed with how she is bearing up to the thrashing. Rachel desperately wanting not to give in, not to jump up, not to dissolve uncontrollably into tears: not let him win.

And then the fifth. WHACK. Right on top of the previous stroke, just as the fire from that had reached its peak and begun to level out, re-igniting the pain, the burning. She feels herself instinctively start to straighten up, to reach for her buttocks, but just in time controls herself and leans back down. ‘Five.’

Noting the reaction, Simon lines the rod up carefully. He waits, watching Rachel control herself, steel herself for the next blow. And just as she seems calm, prepared, he brings the cane down again for a third consecutive time on the same line. ‘Noooooooo.’ She starts to sob now, the pain unbelievable, scarcely able to bear it any more. ‘S..s…six.’

Simon notices how her feet have slowly moved apart, as she tries to balance against the blows, all attempts at modesty now forgotten. He looks round, to see the other prefects smiling at him, drinking in the view. He slides the tip of the cane against the inside of her thigh, and moves it slowly upwards to rest between her legs, tapping it gently up and down, pushing it against her. ‘Half way through, Miss Fox, you’re doing well.’ She is sobbing audibly now, the pain and the shame mixing into utter humiliation. She tries to focus her mind: only one minute, just one minute to survive, then it will be over.

The next stroke is hard, fast, low down. Rachel gasps, counts seven, And then the eighth, following quickly, and the ninth, and before she even has time to realise, the cane is thwacking down on her again, even harder, and as she gasps in shock the next stripe is applied. An in utter agony, she shoots to her feet, unable to stand it any more, her hands reaching back to clutch her burning wealed buttocks, as the tears flow down her face.

Simon watches her, a small smile flickering across his face as he notes his small victory, how she had not been able to withstand the punishment. ‘I think you’d better bend down again, Miss Fox. And that last one doesn’t count, so I guess we’re still on nine.’

Carefully, she leans forward, gingerly reaching down towards her toes. She feels his eyes on her, watching, pausing, letting her settle down. Then the next stroke, low down again, agonising. ‘Ten.’

Again a pause. A long one, twenty seconds maybe. She closes her eyes. THWACK! It takes all of her strength, all of her willpower not to stand up. ‘Eleven.’

And she looks back between her legs, and sees him walking back, then turning and lifting the stick high and sauntering forward and AAAAAARGH delivering the final stroke with all his might. She clutches at her ankles, holding herself in position, desperate not to flinch, and cries out ‘TWELVE’. Twelve, finished, all over.

She hears Simon’s voice, distant. ‘You may get dressed.’ And she stretches up, and pulls her knickers up slowly, and then turns towards the chair where her skirt has been lying, and steps back into it, the pain almost unbearable still, and wipes her tears from her eyes, and pulls on her blazer, and all the time Simon and the other three are watching her, lapping up her pain and her misery.

‘You may go.’ And she looks at Simon, and walks towards the door, and he walks over to it with her and reaches for the handle, but just before he does so he puts his hand on her shoulder and softly, gently squeezes it and she hears him tell her kindly, ‘You were so brave.’

And then it’s out into the corridor, past the crowd of kids at the door of the prefects’ room, some of whom have obviously heard what has happened, and ignoring their jeers and pushing through them she sets off through the corridors, then up the stairs back into her room and collapses on the bed, her roommates gathering round her to hug her and comfort her and make her feel loved.

–

She undressed and climbed under the duvet. She must have fallen asleep – a restless sleep, her mind churning overr the afternoon’s events, her backside throbbing. Thinking about Simon, and the beating, and about his hand on her shoulder as she had left. About how much she still liked him, even after what had happened.

And then she woke with a start, as the dorm door opened. And looked up… to see Simon peering round the door, no longer in his prefect’s gown but in jeans and his first-team rugby shirt. She reached out and flicked on her bedside light – 7.15. The others must be at dinner.

He closed the door behind him. She drew the duvet round her, as he walked over and perched himself on the side of her bed. They looked at one another, neither speaking, then both at the same time… ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Are you OK, Rach?’

She felt the tears welling up again. She nodded. ‘I was so stupid.’

Still clutching the duvet, and moving carefully so as not to re-ignite the pain, she shuffled round so her head lay next to his leg. He put a hand down on her face, cool, soft.

She kissed it.

And then pulled back, shocked at what she had done.

‘I still care about you, Rach.’

She looked at him, surprised. ‘And me about you. I’ve missed you.’

He laughed. ‘Although I guess we’ve got a funny way of showing it! How are you feeling?’

‘Sore.’

‘I’m not surprised. I mean, my arm’s sore, so God knows what your backside must be like.’

He leant down and kissed her forehead, and she reached her hands around the back of his head, and pulled his mouth down to her again, kissing him long and passionately.

They pulled apart, and Rachel suddenly had a thought. ‘What if someone comes in?’ Holding the duvet round her, she swung herself out of bed and went over to the door, turning the key in the lock, making a decision for herself as she did so. She turned round, and walked back towards Simon, and as she did so she let the duvet fall towards the floor, exposing herself to his gaze. He stood up, and moved towards her, placing his hands on her shoulders and kissing her: ‘You’re so beautiful, Rach.’

She reached her hands under his rugby shirt, and lifted it up, over his heads, pressing her bare breasts against him. And then moved her hands down to his jeans, opening the buttons, pulling them downwards, taking his hardening penis in her hands. They kissed again, rubbing their bodies against one another, and then Simon pulled free and moved towards the bed, taking off his jeans as he went. He picked up her pillow and laid it on the middle of the bed, and taking her by the hand pulled her gently towards the bed, and laid her down, her bruised buttocks resting on the soft pillow, as his head dived between her legs. Rachel reached down and held him to her, moaning as the pleasure flowed through her body. She shuddered with pleasure as he moved up and started to rub his cock against her now wet opening, backwards and forwards over her, making her as wet as he could before he leant upwards and pushed himself in. She gasped as he entered, a moment of surprise and then such wonderful new sensations washing over her, and then lay back as he slid himself fully in. She felt his hands slide under her, cradling her buttocks as he rode her, thrusting himself onto her willng body, and then soon – oh so soon – felt him pull back out as he came over her tummy.

And then they started to hear footsteps outside, people obviously starting to emerge from dinner, and so quickly got to their feet and pulled their clothes back on. Rachel threw the duvet over the bed, turning the pillow over and moving it back to its rightful place, and then unlocked the door.

And with a last, lingering kiss, Simon slipped out of the room…

About four metres above their heads, to be precise.

According to the school’s website, Camborough Academy “combines modern classroom facilities with the delights of studying in an historic environment”. The girls of Lower Remove A could therefore sit in their modern classroom facilities, absorbing Mr Clarke’s words of O-Level wisdom, whilst upstairs the Headmaster prowled around his ever-so-historic study – the only flaw in this impressive blend of ancient and modern being the relative lack of sound-proofing afforded by the floorboards that separated the two.

In usual circumstances, of course, there was little problem. The Headmaster was not wont to scream at the top of his voice at visiting parents; members of staff usually avoided excessive histrionics when faced with the Lower Remove on even their most giggly and uncooperative of days.

But traditional schools have traditional means of maintaining order amidst the potential chaos of 300 teenaged girls. An elaborate pyramid of punishments had been devised over the years to cajole and control the young ladies. You could be sent to stand in all manner of locations, from the corner to the corridor to outside the common room. Lines could be submitted, from careful copying of ancient Latin verse, to mundane repetition of the “I must not” variety. Work Detentions could keep you back after school to complete unsatisfactory work; Punishment Detentions could detain you for breaches of school rules. Housemasters could lecture.

And the Headmaster could cane.

Not that he did, often. At least, not in comparison to some schools. Once a week, once a fortnight perhaps, a trembling girl made her nervous way up the winding staircase opposite Lower Remove A’s door, descending more timidly five, ten minutes later to scurry back shame-faced to the lesson from which she had been extracted.

And in the meantime, every stroke, every plaintive resulting yelp, resonated through the wooden floor, and into the sympathetic ears of the girls in the classroom below.

This particular batch of young ladies were coming to the end of their first term at Camborough, in the archaically named “Lower Remove”. Bright girls, clever enough to pass the rigorous entrance examination. Particularly bright in the case of this, the “A” form – the top stream, the most academically gifted. Indeed, it was said that the Headmaster viewed their indirect exposure to the school’s punishment regime as a good thing: after all, it might focus the minds of the best of his youngest generation of pupils if they understood what befall their most unruly peers. From a distance.

Yet it could scarcely be said to be “from a distance” today, when the girls’ eyes took in the empty desk at the front right-hand corner of the classroom. Recently vacated by an ashen-faced Alexandra. The Head Prefect had knocked politely at the door, some five minutes after the start of the lesson, and left a folded yellow sheet of paper with Mr Clarke. He’d read it, slowly, then placed it in the desk drawer. With a hint of sympathy in his voice: “Miss Etterington, please report to the Headmaster’s study.”

Had she known it was coming? Possibly. Presumably? She knew the rules about smoking: the one red line that no-once could cross, and rightly so, some might say. Mrs Fearn had scarcely given the impression of sympathy when her eyes had alighted on the unopened pack of Marlboros during that morning’s unexpected desk inspection.

But nothing could have prepared the young girl for the moment when that door had swung open; for when had Clarke read the dreaded yellow slip; for when his eyes had turned to her.

It hadn’t started yet: was the Headmaster lecturing her, listening to her? Could she yet escape?

And then the scrape of the chair, being moved into position above them.

Listen to Clarke. Concentrate. Block it out. “The Factory Act of 1833 was a major step forward, banning factories from employing children under the age of nine.”

Whack.

Usually some abstract girl being punished. Easy to block out. Not this time. This time, they knew.

“Youngsters between nine and thirteen were limited to eight hours of work, and had to be given two hours of education per week.”

Whack.

A howl, this time, plainly audible.

How awful it must be. She’s a good girl, really. Two strokes will be enough. The girls glanced at one another, wincing.

“…yet there were only four of these new factory inspectors to look after the whole country.”

Thwack. Louder.

Was that sobbing? Mental hugs, flying through the ceiling. Did she know they were listening, worrying, counting her strokes? Praying that it couldn’t be _that_ bad.

“Next came Lord Shaftesbury’s Mines Act. 1842. You should be grateful to Lord Shaftesbury: he banned women and youngsters from working underground.” As if their minds were on his lecture.

Whack. So loud it could have been in the room. Dear goodness, a fourth. Alexxxxxx… Loud sobbing now. Even Clarke glanced upwards, his eyes returning first to her empty chair, and then to his notes.

They listened for the sound, yearning for silence.

“Finally, the Ten Hour Act of 1847, regulating the maximum working day for women and children in factories and mills.”

Nothing.

Counting the seconds.

Surely now?

A scraping of the chair. Nervous glances flying across the room. A collective sigh of relief. She must have stood up. Fingers uncrossing: it must be over.

“Across the Irish Sea, of course, came the potato famine of 1845. That brought pressure to bear for the repeal of the Corn Laws, which Peel forced through parliament in 1846 aginst the wishes of many of his own party, before resigning four days later.”

The door swung open.

“Ah. Miss Etterington.”

A pale, frail Miss Etterington. Avoiding the eyes of her compatriots. Walking slowly, gingerly.

“Do take a seat.”

Easier said than done, as he knew. They watched: she winced, adjusting her position. Elbows on her desk, supporting her face.

They could see the tear stains – would have wiped them away for her, if they could.

“So, Amanda, a quick test. The Mines Act. What year?”

‘From: The Headmaster, Deepdene School, Larchfield Lane, Worsfield, Berkshire

To: Miss Beth Willis Sandown House

Dear Miss Willis,

I was deeply disappointed to learn from Mr. Taylor that you had been caught playing truant yesterday afternoon. Coming so soon after my address to the school assembly on the issue of attendance in classes, this strikes me as a most serious breach of school rules, and is one that I intend to treat with the utmost severity.

I should therefore like you to report to my study in Gladstone House this evening at 6.30 , where I shall punish you. You should note that I fully intend to apply the same treatment to you as I would to one of our male pupils in similar circumstances.

Yours,

A. Jenkins, Headmaster’

Beth re-read the letter, pale. Her hands shook as she took it in. ‘The same treatment’.

But surely… There’d been a boy in the Fourth Year who’d be summonsed to the Headmaster the previous term, and he’d ended up being caned and suspended. But they couldn’t cane a girl… at least she had that comfort. That was one advantage to being a sixth-from girl at such a distinguished public school! But being suspended – what would her parents think? What an awful thought! The shame of it. Her father would skin her alive!

‘What’s that, Beth’ Two of the other Lower Sixth Form girls were at her side.

‘Oh – er – nothing. Just some stuff about the rehearsals for the school play.’

They looked concerned. ‘Are you feeling OK?’

‘Yeah – why?’

‘Just you look a bit pale, that’s all. I hope you’re not going to pass anything nasty on to us!’

Beth managed a smile. ‘I doubt it.’

‘Come on then. Let’s go to lunch’

–

At lunch, she was very quiet. To be suspended! And she’d only popped out of school briefly! And her friends wouldn’t leave her in peace.

As they walked out of the dining hall, her closest friend Sally came up to her, and put a caring arm round her shoulder. ‘Are you sure you’re OK, Beth – you’ve hardly eaten anything, and you’ve been really quiet all lunch’

She couldn’t keep it to herself any longer. ‘Sally, I’m really worried’

‘Hey, Beth, what about?’

‘Read this.’ Beth passed the letter across the table to her friend.

‘Phew. What did you do?’

‘I needed a couple of things – and I was stuck in all weekend with the match and then the play, and I just didn’t get a chance. So I nipped off yesterday in our Private Study period – and Taylor only caught me coming back into the school’

‘That’s awful. God. And now you’re up before the beak!’

‘What will he do – that line about the same treatment as the boys. That scares me. You remember Jones, last term?’

‘You mean – no, no, he couldn’t cane a girl. But, God – he might suspend you. What would your parents say?

‘Just don’t. My Dad would go ballistic.’

The bell rang for the star of the next lesson.

‘Look. Beth. Don’t worry. You had a good excuse – you’d been doing stuff for the school all weekend. He’ll just tell you off.’

‘Christ I hope so. Don’t tell anyone, will you?’

–

The afternoon seemed like an eternity. Double maths – so hard to concentrate. Prep for tomorrow – but she wouldn’t be here! What would her Dad say – he’d never forgive her. God, the shame of it. Everything had been so good for two terms – so good she hoped to be appointed as a school prefect in the summer. And now this.

–

6.10. Beth put her books in her locker, and headed to the dorm. . A quick spray of perfume – try to smell nice. Good girl. Clean girl. Don’t punish me… Out of the dorm and down the stairs. ‘Coming to watch TV before dinner, Beth?’ ‘No – sorry – got something to do.’

Out of the main door, and cross the yard. Out of the gate. My God, this was awful.

Up the drive and knock on the Secretary’s office.

‘Beth Willis – to see the Headmaster.’

‘Come in, pet. Take a seat. He’ll be with you in a minute.’

The waiting. 6.28 … 6.29 … still no sign.. 6.34. This was hell.

Suddenly the door opened. Taylor, in his gown. My God, he looks angry.

‘Come in.’

She walks forward, trembling.

‘Shut the door behind you and sit down.’

High-backed wooden chair facing a massive desk. She sat.

‘Explain yourself.’

She told him about the weekend. I needed some things – it was the only time to go.

‘Did you listen in assembly yesterday?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And what did I say?’

‘You said that truancy was really serious, sir, and that you were going to stamp it out.’

‘And I am.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Well, then. Do you know what I do to boys in this school when I want to teach them a lesson, Beth?’

‘No Sir.’ Surely…

‘I cane them. Hard. So hard that they don’t tend to come back. Now I’ve never had to do that to a girl in the three years since we let girls join our school, but this time you really don’t leave me with any choice. So that’s what I’m going to do to you, Beth.’

‘No, sir. Please…’

Jenkins was walking over the a cupboard at the side of the room. He opened it, and took out a cane. She couldn’t believe it: she felt herself literally shaking with fear.

He flexed the cane. So long – four feet, at least.

‘Sir, you can’t do this.’

‘Don’t be insolent. If there’s one thing I hate more than rank disobedience, it’s someone who won’t take their punishment when it’s due to them.’

‘But you can’t.’

‘We’ll see about that. Stand up. Now take your knickers off and put them on the desk.’

No…. This was too terrible.

‘NOW!’

She reached up under her skirt, and – hands trembling – pulled down her pants. The Head moved round the desk towards her.

‘Put them on the desk. Now, then, I’m going to give you six strokes of the cane. And I intend to make them hurt. If you flinch, or cry out, the stroke won’t count. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I want to you step behind that chair, lift your skirt up, and bend over the chair from behind.’

My God. This wasn’t happening,. Any moment now this man was going to be attacking her, hurting her.

‘No, Sir.’ She turned and moved towards the door, reaching for the handle.

He clutched her arm. ‘How dare you! I am the Headmaster of this school, and I have the right to tell you what to do. I make the decisions. You do what you’re told. And I’ll give you two more strokes for running away, so you’re now up to eight. So get your skirt up, and bend over before you incur any more.’

Tears welling in her pale blue eyes, Beth hitched up her skirt. She tried to cover herself.

‘Right up so it’s clear of your backside.’

She gathered it further up. She was totally exposed now – her pale strip of pubes on show for the Head. How humiliating.

‘Over the chair.’

Beth leant forward over the chair, placing her hands on the seat.

‘No, no, no. Stand up close to it, put your feet apart, next to the back legs, and reach for the bottom of the legs at the front.’

She leant forward – she could hardly reach.

‘Hands lower down. Feet touching the chair legs. Get tight, girl.’ She stretched. She felt so exposed – this man must be able to see everything.

He swished the cane. What a sound.

‘Eight strokes. No flinching. Would you please count them as we go.’

She heard him walk back to the door. My God – he was taking a run-up at her. She glanced back, and saw him left the cane above his head. Footsteps, the swish, then – whack. The stick landed so hard across her buttocks that it almost numbed her. And then the pain. Spreading out from where the cane had landed. low down – burning. Agony. And still it welled up. Her whole backside felt on fire.

‘Count them.’

‘One, Sir.’ With as much dignity as she could compose.

He walked back again. Paused. Any moment now.

‘Aaaahh.’ Unbelievable. Above the first, right across the centre of her buttocks. The fire almost took her breathe away.

‘No crying out. And COUNT’

‘Two, Sir.’

Ten seconds – more? Beth felt totally powerless, subjugated. And again it whipped down on her, this time across the very join of her buttocks and her thighs. She could hardly bear it.

‘Three, Sir.’ She’d remembered.

And again. Harder still, slightly sooner than she’d expected. She shot up, clutching her behind, tears streaming down her face. He’d hit her just between the first two, reactivating those two lines as well as this new stripe.

‘That one doesn’t count. Get over.’

Shamed, humiliated, she bent back over the chair, reaching forward to tighten herself into position.

‘Skirt.’

She reached back and lifted the skirt clear. The Head walked backwards.

The pause. How could she manage the rest?

The crack of the cane – right on top of the previous line. Again, she straightened, up, dancing round the room, trying to calm the burning weals.

‘You are not helping yourself, Beth. You are still on three strokes, and I fully intend to keep you here until you have had all eight. Now stop wasting my time, and get over the chair.’

The tears were running down her face as she leant forward again.

‘Hands down the chair legs. Thank you.’

She could feel Jenkins close behind her this time: the cane gently rested across her buttocks. He drew it back, high into the air, then cracked it down again. Beth clutched the chair with all her strength, desperate not to stand up as the red hot pain swelled across her behind.

‘Four sir.’

Still he stood close behind. Another swish – and a stroke even harder than before. But still she stayed down.

‘Five, Sir.’ This was like nothing she’d ever imagined, even in her worst nightmares. And still three to go. The pain was so intense that it could hardly get any worse: she had to stay down. But this time he had walked back, and was running towards her.

‘Aaaahhh.’ She cried out. And through the tears added the total up to ‘Six.’

She looked up slightly, focusing ahead of her on the wooden edge of the Head’s solid desk. Concentrate, Beth. Ignore the pain. But as the next stroke cracked down on her buttocks, she couldn’t help herself. Up she shot, clutching her behind, desperately trying to ease the pain. Her behind hardly felt like her own any more, the weals joining together to make it feel hard, swollen, twice as large. Feeling Jenkins’ stare, she gingerly resumed her position.

‘Still six, Sir.’

And then another low one – right across the join between the top of her thighs and the bottom of her buttocks. She held on, desperately, the tears now flowing freely.

Jenkins was speaking to her. ‘One left, Miss Willis. Assuming you can take the stroke, this will complete your chastisement. And I sincerely hope never to see you in here again for a repeat performance.’

‘No, Sir, you won’t.’

‘Good.’ He turned and walked back. At the door, he paused, waiting. And still he waited. She yearned for him to get it over, wanting him to deliver that final stroke. And she shut her eyes.

And a few seconds later, it was over. The final stroke had been unbearable – she could hardly believe that someone coould cause her so much pain. But she had stayed down.

And now she was pulling her knickers back up, over her bruised and throbbing buttocks. And now he was lecturing her again. She nodded, trying to listen – but all she could hear were odd words – “naughty’, “serious’, “hope you’re sorry’.

And then she was walking out of the door, trying hard to stand up straight, look dignified, trying not to clutch her fiery bottom.

And then she was in her room, face down on the duvet, sobbing, her hands trying to no avail to soothe the pain.

And she couldn’t help thinking to herself – this caning: so barbaric, so cruel. But one thing had changed – she was never going to play truant again. And from the way her bottom felt there was another: she was never, ever going to be able to sit down again in comfort.