The young reporter gets a curious invite.

by Alison Short

After my third and, from a physical point of view, most painful encounter with the redoubtable Hilary Underwood, headmistress of the Wolds School, I felt more emotionally conflicted than ever. What on earth was happening to me?

At one level, I was thrilled beyond words, having been inducted into the weird and wonderful world of spanking, of which I am now a life-long aficionado. I had not only experienced corporal punishment for the first time, and found it an unexpected fascination, I had found a kindred spirit in Charlotte Forbes, Miss Underwood’s pert young secretary, who had freely confessed to me how much she enjoyed being ‘taken in hand’ by an older woman. We had even contrived to be caned together, after deliberately getting the wrong side of Miss Underwood. It was an unforgettable experience, and one I was longing to repeat.

At the same time, I was cautious. Miss Underwood was not just a respected headmistress, but a pillar of her local community. As a cub reporter on the local paper, I also had a public profile. Anything that had even the appearance of moral depravity would be fatal. I would have to tread very carefully indeed.

So it was nearly Christmas, almost two months after my last visit to the Wolds School, before the next chapter in my strange spanking odyssey. I had just got into work when I saw a handwritten letter on my desk. I opened it, puzzled, and when I realised it was from Charlotte, Miss Underwood’s secretary, I could feel my heart pounding with excitement.

There was just a single sentence, in bold letters:


Mysterious or what? I had no idea what to expect, but the very thought of visiting the Wolds School again was so titillating that, for the next two days, I could think of nothing else.

At 5.45 exactly, I was in position next to the red post-box on School Lane, which linked the Wolds School to the neighbouring village. Charlotte had not told me what to wear, so I had played safe with a white blouse and black skirt under my winter coat. It was a crisp, bitter evening and I was glad when Charlotte also arrived bang on time.

“Glad you could make it,” she said, giving me a quick peck on the cheek. “Come on, we haven’t got much time.”

I followed her through a side-gate into what looked like a school playing field and, after skirting the field, we found ourselves at the back of what looked like a gym or sports hall. Squeezing me by the hand and whispering to me to be quiet, Charlotte unlocked a side-door, led me along a narrow corridor, then hustled me into a small ante-room that was little bigger than a cupboard. We were in near pitch darkness, which only added to the suspense.

“We’re not supposed to be here,” Charlotte whispered, suppressing a giggle. “Sore bums if we’re caught. Miss will be livid. Just have to risk it. Quick! They’re coming.”

She squeezed my hand and suddenly there was a sound of voices in the distance, someone switched on a light and I was finally able to get my bearings.

We were in a small, darkened room just off the school gym, which was now fully lit. A couple of small holes in the door, of the kind used to ventilate pantries, enabled us to view what was happening in the gym without being observed ourselves. It was the perfect vantage-point for whatever was about to unfold. And I had a pretty good idea what form the entertainment was going to take!

About fifteen girls, sixth-formers by the look of them, had formed a line against the far wall, which was about fifty feet away from where we were hidden. They were dressed as for a gym lesson, in tight-fitting navy shorts and white aertex shirts, but from the worried looks on their faces, their minds were not on gymnastics.

“End-of-term defaulters,” whispered Charlotte. “Two or more Ds for bad behaviour. Automatic six. Look out, here she comes!”

There was no doubt who ‘she’ was. The door to the gym opened, the girls stood to attention and, there, cane in hand, was the familiar figure of Hilary Underwood. She was wearing her academic gown and her face was a study in concentration, as she focussed on the serious business in hand. In the middle of the gym, there was a small vaulting horse, its purpose all too obvious. The stage was set.

As the headmistress addressed the miscreants, I craned to hear what she was saying, but could only catch the odd word. “Disappointed.” “Lesson.” “Deserved.” “Six.” “Painful.” Then, without further ado, the beatings started, with the girl at the left end of the row stepping forward, bending over the horse and gripping the legs on the far side. I held my breath and wondered whether she would be made to bare her bottom, but no such luck; it was to be six over those tight blue shorts, and six good ones, if I knew Miss Underwood.

The headmistress did not let me down. The first girl to be caned was a redhead, with a hint of haughtiness about her, but from the yelp she let out when the cane bit into her rear, she was about to brought down a peg or two. Five more real stingers followed, the last one the hardest of the lot. The poor girl then had to shake the headmistress by the hand before returning to her place, her face blotched with tears.

“Shaking hands is all part of the ritual,” whispered Charlotte. “What do you think of the show so far?”

“Brilliant! Thanks so much for getting me a ticket.”

For the next ten minutes or so, the canings continued in strict, formal sequence. The girls differed in appearance, and in how well or badly they took their punishment, but there was a pleasing uniformity to the canings themselves. Miss Underwood wielded the rod with metronomic efficiency, leaving about ten seconds between strokes and always making sure that the last stroke was the most venomous of the lot. The stripes were laid on with an accuracy that betokened the true professional.

From my hidden vantage point, I had a clear view of Miss Underwood’s face, which was a study in calm determination; not angry or sadistic, but intensely focussed on the job in hand, administering six of the very best on the part of the anatomy where it would do a girl the most good.

Looking at the girls lined up against the wall, with their hands on their heads, it was not hard to distinguish the ones who had already been caned from those waiting their turn. The first group were fighting back tears and the urge to rub their bottoms, which seemed to be taboo. The second group were a study in terror, hardly able to look at that cruel, lashing cane.

There was only one brief hiccough in proceedings. One girl, whether from absent-mindedness or bravado, forgot to shake Miss Underwood by the hand. Without further ado, the headmistress pulled down her gym shorts and gave her a further quick-fire four strokes on her bare bottom. She was then made to stand in the corner of the gym, with her well-striped backside on full display. Needless to say, I could hardly take my eyes off it.

“Serves her bloody well right,” whispered Charlotte. “Moron.”

When all the girls had been dealt with to her satisfaction, Miss Underwood delivered a closing homily. I missed most of it, but the general theme seemed to be consequences: the girls had let themselves and their school down and had only themselves to blame for what had just happened to them.

“And that concludes the entertainment for the evening,” said Charlotte, with her mouth close to my ear. Too close, alas. In the course of moving, she managed to knock over a broom which had been up against the wall and now clattered to the floor. The noise was like a gunshot in the confined space and, to my horror, it had reached the ears of Miss Underwood, who spun round and looked directly at us. Disaster!

(Two years later, by which time we had become firm friends, Charlotte confided that she had knocked over the broom deliberately, to prompt the inevitable reprisals. But at the time, all I could think of, with mounting alarm, was the reprisals!)

Striding over towards our hiding-place, cane in hand, the headmistress pulled open the door, took stock of the situation, gave us an absolutely filthy look and then shepherded us towards the centre of the gym. The girls boggled at us as if we were ghosts. Miss Underwood cleared her throat theatrically.

“Girls, I regret to say that, completely unbeknownst to me, your punishment has had witnesses. Charlotte, my secretary, I believe you know. The other young lady is called Emma. Their behaviour strikes me as utterly disgraceful and, needless to say, it will have consequences. Severe consequences.”

There was another theatrical pause, during which I could not take my eyes off that whippy-looking cane.

“As you know, girls,” Miss Underwood resumed, “I am a great believer in retributive justice, with the punishment fitting the crime. Since these two young ladies have seen fit to witness your punishment, against your wishes, Charlotte and Emma will themselves be punished, with you as witnesses. They will receive twelve strokes apiece.”

There was a shocked gasp from some of the girls, but others, I noticed, were suppressing smiles. They clearly planned to enjoy the spectacle!

“Emma, you will go first,” said Miss Underwood, gripping me by the hand and leading me to the horse, over which I bent. Then she slowly raised my skirt out of the way and eased my tights down below my knees. The last line of defence was my white panties. Would they coming down too? In front of an audience of gloating schoolgirls? The thought was just too awful, and I was shaking in terror at the prospect. Luckily, Miss Underwood spared my blushes.

She was not so sparing with my poor bottom. There was the swish of a practice stroke, followed by the swish of the real thing, then that awful moment of sharp, searing pain as the cane finds its mark. I let out a low moan and was still gasping for breath when the second stroke was delivered, high up on my backside. Three and four were not too bad, but the fifth was hard and low and the sixth was even harder and found the bare flesh where my panties had ridden up my buttocks. And I was only half way through!

The fact that it was a bitterly cold night, and the gym was unheated, only made the ordeal more awful. My previous encounters with Miss Underwood had taken place in summer and early autumn, when my bottom was already warm, so to speak. There is something far more painful about a cane lashing down on shivering buttocks, as I was discovering to my cost. I was sobbing in pain, a fact not wasted on my audience.

The audience was another complicating factor. If I am honest, as my interest in spanking had blossomed I had idly fantasised about being caned in public, wondering if it would somehow add spice to the experience. But there was no sense of titillation, just a gritted-teeth determination to bear my punishment with fortitude in front of witnesses.

After the twelfth and final stroke, I remained in position until Miss Underwood told me to rise and compose myself. I then shook her hand, as I had seen the others do, and whispered, “Thank you, headmistress,” and retreated to the side of the gym while Charlotte took my place. She lowered her trousers, without waiting to be told, and bent over the horse, her tightly knickered bottom on full and glorious display.

Needless to say, I enjoyed her thrashing more than my own! My lustful gaze shifted eagerly between the headmistress’s calm face, beautiful in its severity, and Charlotte’s pertly squirming buttocks. It was a caning for the gods, and I can still see it, all these years later.

Miss Underwood, I insist to this day, was not a sadist getting pleasure from the pain of others. She was an educator, with a tried-and-tested method for getting her pupils to give of their best. On this occasion, after the girls had retired to their dormitories, where they could finally give their bottoms a good rubbing, she invited me and Charlotte back to her study for a glass of sherry.

“I would hate you to think I was a vindictive woman,” she said, with one of her wintry smiles. “I am actually very fond of both of you, when you are not horsing about. But if you play with fire, you can expect to get your fingers burnt. Or, indeed, experience a burning sensation in a very different part of your anatomy.”

Charlotte looked at me, I looked at Charlotte, we both looked at Miss Underwood and, sherry in hand, the three of us shared a guilty, conspiratorial laugh.

The End

© Alison Short 2021