A girl’s problems with a teacher, and how her father feels about it.
By Robert Dingley
Jenny and I were walking to the bus stop after photography club when, in the distance, I could see a green car coming quickly towards us with a crushed wing and front bumper scraping along the road.
I lifted my camera, which hung around my neck, and pressed the shutter. Jenny was rather slower and did not take any pictures. I managed to take a second photograph of the back of the car as it moved away from us.
“That was Miss Hunt,” I said to Jenny.
“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer person,” she replied ironically. We both giggled. Miss Hunt was not our favourite teacher.
Walking on, I asked Jenny: “Do you think Mr James will accept a photo of that car in the Action category of the Photograph Competition?”
“Probably depends on how embarrassing it is to Miss Hunt.”
“If we are quick we will have time to hand our films into Boots to develop,” I said.
On the bus Jenny said: “I bet Miss Hunt is in a foul mood at gym tomorrow.”
Miss Hunt was the athletics mistress, a former three times Olympian, and, so far as we were concerned, a first class shit. This was the second week of the summer term in her first year at the school. She had taken an instant dislike to Jenny and me, probably because we were not good at games, athletics or indeed any kind of physical activity that she taught. So far she had slippered us on eight different occasions for minor transgressions whilst ignoring others doing similar things or worse. Even our classmates had noticed this preference. Despite a couple of complaints by our respective parents the Headmistress had supported her teacher so nothing changed.
Jenny’s prediction turned out to be quite correct. Next day the class were practising basketball shooting before the gym lesson. Jenny and I were having a friendly tussle for a ball between genuine but (admittedly) poor attempts to shoot a basket when Miss Hunt walked in.
“Alison Wakefield and Jennifer Holmes see me after the lesson,” she barked.
‘Damn it,’ I thought, glancing at Jenny, Give her a chance and she will use it.
“Sorry Jenny,” I mouthed.
“Not your fault,” she silently replied.
At the end of the period Miss Hunt hurried from the gym to her office and we followed quickly. A few of the girls looked at each other knowingly and giggled as we passed.
“Close the door,” she said standing in front of us. “I’m tired of having you in here,” she ranted.
“It’s not our fault you had a car accident,” I blurted out. There was a short silence.
‘What on earth made me say that?’ I thought.
“How did you know about that? Don’t be cheeky and just grab your ankles,” she replied.
I saw her walk round her desk and take out a large plimsoll from a drawer. I leaned over feet slightly apart and held onto my ankles, feeling my shorts tighten on my bottom.
Miss Hunt stood behind me and I watched her feet shuffle into position beside me. “You, Alison Wakefield, are becoming too cheeky for your own good,” she said and brought down the plimsoll hard. Whop!
‘Phew!’ I thought. ‘That did upset her.’
She hit me five more times and it was becoming painful at the end.
“Get up and stand by the door. Holmes, over here and grab your ankles.”
I watched as Jenny bent over and Miss Hunt raised the plimsoll high, then brought it swiftly down hard four times, pausing between each stroke. Jenny is fairly plump and her shorts were so tight over her bottom that I could see it bounce each time. I glanced at Miss Hunt’s face at one point as she waited between a stroke and noticed the look of glee she had.
‘She is enjoying it,’ I thought, not that it was a surprise. How did I not notice that before?
“Get up, Holmes, and both of you get out,” said Miss Hunt, and we both left to return to the changing rooms.
“Blimey, Alison. She hit you hard,” Jenny said.
“Felt it too,” I replied. “She really enjoys whacking us you know,” I continued. “When she was hitting you I saw her grinning like a cat.”
“Well we know that. She’s had us grip our ankles often enough,” Jenny replied.
“Well yes, but she really enjoys it,” I continued.
“How many did you get then?” We were asked on entering the changing room.
“Six and four,” I said quickly. “I was cheeky,” I explained as Jenny and I started to strip for a shower.
We were showing everyone our red bottoms when Carol Pickering spoke up. “Serves you right Alison,” she said, at the same time flicking her towel and catching me on the side.
“You and the whole class knows she picks on Jenny and me, Carol, so take your giggling friends and sod off,” I replied pushing past her to the showers.
A towel flicked again catching me on the buttocks, making me jump and making several girls laugh. I turned quickly and shoulder charged Carol in her stomach. She fell onto the floor and I fell on her fists whirling. A crowd formed round us shouting until, although she was in the school first eleven at hockey and rather bigger than me I had the element of surprise and was on top of her and angry.
“What is going on? Wakefield, let go! I said, let go! Stop!”
Miss Hunt had heard what was going on. Alison and I were still fighting and Miss Hunt was trying to lift me away from her and having some difficulty. I managed to plant a last straight right onto Alison’s nose which must have made her eyes water before we were dragged apart.
“Pickering! Put your shirt and jumper on, get out of the changing room and go to Mrs King’s office. You, Wakefield, have a quick shower and follow her.” Mrs King was the Headmistress.
Later Carol and I entered Mrs King’s office. Miss Hunt was already there.
“Miss Hunt has explained that she found you fighting in the changing rooms. Do either of you have an explanation please?”
“No miss,” I responded.
“She started it Miss,” said Carol.
“I certainly did not,” I said. “You flicked me with a towel and I simply reacted.”
“Enough,” said Mrs King. “Fighting will not be tolerated. Pickering, go and stand by Miss Hunt. Wakefield, stand in front of the desk.”
She walked over to a cupboard by the door and brought out a long thin looking cane with a crooked handle at the end. I looked over at Carol, who looked a little white, and Miss Hunt, who was licking her lips with glistening eyes.
“Touch your toes, Wakefield.”
I bent over. ‘This will be a record for me,’ I thought. ‘Beaten twice in one morning and once with the cane. At least I have my trousers and four pairs of panties on though.’
I felt a couple of taps, then SWISH THWACK and a searing pain across my bottom, more painful than the combined six with a slipper I had received earlier.
A couple of more taps and then again SWISH THWACK and the pain seemed to double in intensity. Another tap and SWISH THWACK and I gave an involuntary: “Ouch.”
“Right, Wakefield. Get up and stand next to Miss Hunt. Pickering, over here and touch your toes.”
I gently rubbed my bottom which was now sending me searing hot damaged pains. Quite different from the hot pains of a plimsoll whacking.
I watched Carol touch her toes, legs straight together. It surprised me that her bottom seemed quite small compared to Jenny’s plump buttocks. Perhaps that is why Miss Hunt had Jenny and me in her office so often clutching our ankles. The cane tapped her bottom a couple of times and then a long SWISH THWACK as Mrs King really slashed it down.
‘Crickey,’ I thought. ‘Is that how had she hit me?’
Alison leaped up with a loud: “OOOW.”
“Bend over and touch those toes, Pickering. If you stand up again the stroke will not count. Do you understand?”
“Yes miss,” she murmured.
Mrs King lined up the cane again and I held my breath. SWISH THWACK.
“OOW,” said Carol, but she stayed down.
‘That was definitely not so hard,’ I thought, and immediately felt angry. ‘She deserves this more than I do,’ I thought.
Mrs King lined up the cane again and I watched, mesmerised, her draw it right back slowly, before it was brought down like lightning with a loud SWISH CRACK. A real stinger.
“Ooow ow,” cried Carol, leaping up holding her bottom with tears running down her face.
“That one does not count,” said Mrs King. “Touch those toes again and let’s get this over with.”
Carol bent over again a few seconds later and Mrs King let fly again with the same result as before.
“That will do,” said Mrs King. “Both of you, get out and don’t let me see you in here for fighting again.”
We left quickly, Carol still crying quietly. “It’s not fair,” she complained. “I had four and you only received three.”
“Oh shape up,” I replied. “You stood up. Everyone knows that if you do that it is extra. Anyway it is your fault we were in there in the first place, cry baby,” and I walked off to look for Jenny as it was break time.
That evening over dinner I was complaining to my parents about Miss Hunt and the fact that I had been caned.
“Can you complain to Mrs King about Miss Hunt again, Dad,” I asked.
“She is picking on Alison, Tom,” said my mother.
“Pete Holmes has already complained to Mrs King twice this year about her, you know. That is independently of our joint complaints,” said my father. “There comes a point when complaining does more harm than good. You know Mrs King was quite right to punish you for fighting, don’t you?”
“Yes, Dad,” I replied. “But she did do it shortly after six of the best from Miss Hunt’s plimsoll.”
My two younger sisters giggled, and I glared at them.
“Jenny only received four whacks. At least, though, she can not use the canes she keeps in the corner of her room. That would be painful,” and I shuddered. “That does not bear thinking about.”
“What do you mean?” Asked my father.
“Well, Miss Hunt has an old umbrella stand or something in the corner of her room with a few canes in it. She threatens to use them on us now and again but we know that only Mrs King is allowed to use a cane, so it is an empty threat.”
“Why did you receive six and Jenny only four?” Asked my mother.
“Oh, I was cheeky about her car accident,” I explained. “Here I’ll show you the photographs.”
Jenny and I had collected these from Boots that afternoon.
“You are becoming proficient with that camera,” said my father. The image of the damaged car showed the whole of the car framed in the picture with Miss Hunt’s face clearly seen in the driver’s seat.
A father’s perspective
On Saturday, when Alison and her siblings were out playing and visiting friends, I discussed with my wife Mary how we were going to deal with Miss Hunt and her bullying of our daughter. An idea was forming in my mind but it was of questionable morality and I wanted Mary’s support before going ahead with it.
The following Tuesday was Alison’s games afternoon so we knew Miss Hunt would be in her office until 5 pm in case parents wished to speak to her. Going up the stairs we met Alison and Jenny coming down.
“Mum, Dad,” said Alison. “What are you doing here?”
“Seeing Miss Hunt,” I said. “How about you then?”
Alison and Jenny glanced at each other. “Miss Hunt has just given us another whacking, Dad,” replied Alison. “Six again,” she explained without being asked.
Mary and I looked at each other.
“You girls go and change and wait outside the school gates,” I said. “We will take you home, Jenny. We will be along in a few minutes.”
Outside Miss Hunt’s door, I looked at Mary’s face and she nodded and I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Inside, I introduced myself and Mary, and placed two enlarged photographs of the front and back of Miss Hunt’s damaged car on her desk.
“These photographs were taken last Wednesday, the 30th April,” I said. “You will see that it shows your car at 4.20pm on that day, the date and time is in the bottom right hand corner.” I then placed a local newspaper cutting on the desk next to the photographs.
“This is a news item about an accident in the centre of town at about 4.15pm on 30th April when a green car hit a stationary car and seriously injured the old lady sitting in it and drove off without stopping.”
A second cutting was placed on the desk. “This report states the lady has left hospital but that the police are still trying to trace the driver of the green car. My belief is that you are responsible for that lady being in hospital. Can you give me any reason why I should not go to the police with these photographs?”
Miss Hunt had sat down heavily in her chair during my speech and she now reached out to look at the two photographs.
“It wasn’t me,” she said.
“You have beaten my daughter and her friend many times this year,” I said. “Almost entirely it seems without real justification.”
“They are both hopeless and don’t even try,” she began.
“Yes, but to be punished about a dozen times in a year? Especially as you do not punish anyone else for the same misdemeanours,” I said. “What I suggest is that in order to punish you for leaving the scene of that accident without stopping you receive the same punishment that you mete out to my daughter and her friend.”
“You are suggesting beating me on the bottom?”
“That is exactly correct,” interrupted Mary. “Leaving the scene of an accident in the way you have done is quite a serious offence which could land you in gaol. Mrs King will also, I suspect, be very surprised about how often our daughter has been punished by you this year. We intend to stop you doing so and give you a dose of your own medicine to emphasise our displeasure.”
Miss Hunt looked at us in astonishment. “That is blackmail. Anyway I had nothing to do with this old lady’s accident so there is no need for you to go to the police about my damaged car.”
“We hear what you say,” said Mary. “Oh well, Tom, we will just have to go along to the police station, then see Mrs King and let them sort it out.”
“Wait a minute please,” said Miss Hunt. “This will cause me rather a lot of trouble to show I had nothing to do with the old lady’s accident. You are obviously rather upset that I have had to punish your daughter so often this year too. I must admit I have been rather harsh with her. What exactly are you proposing?”
“That you bend over that office chair of yours and receive twelve. No, you have just beaten my daughter again, so we will make it eighteen strokes. Is that OK Mary?”
“Yes Tom,” she replied. “What does Miss Hunt say?”
Miss Hunt pursed her lips grimly and thought for a few seconds before pulling open a desk drawer and placing a plimsoll on her desk.
“All right. Let’s get on with it then,” and pulled her office chair to the front of her desk. It was an old gentleman’s club chair, well upholstered with a low back. She proceeded to bend over it without being asked, clutching each leg and with her legs tight together. A real athlete’s position. She was wearing a loose patterned skirt which Mary lifted up and tucked into her shirt collar.
“Is that necessary?” Asked Miss Hunt. But when Mary pulled down her panties she half rose and protested.
“Hey! We did not agree that. I don’t hit anyone’s bare bottom.”
“You would if you could,” replied Mary.
At that point I walked over and started examining the canes in the corner of the room.
Miss Hunt stood up. “And I did not agree to any caning either,” she said.
I picked out the longest and thickest cane of the four in the stand and waived it about making a swishing sound as I did so.
“Well it’s up to you. Either you agree to a sound, indeed very sound, beating,” and I swished the cane for emphasis, “Or we will just go to the police and Mrs King. I must say, Mary, that eighteen in one go is going to be too many. It will have to be half now and half in, say, two weeks’ time?”
Mary nodded. “Now all you have to do, Miss Hunt, is bend over that chair and we will begin.”
She took her time over it but eventually she sighed and bent over the chair, round plump bottom high and waiting, both legs clamped together.
“Right,” I said. “This is going to hurt,” and I placed the cane against her bottom to put myself in the right position, raised my arm high and brought the cane down as hard as I could and breaking my wrist half way down with a snap. SWISH CRACK. Her bottom jumped and a red line appeared streaked across it.
She shrieked: “OOOOW,” and leaped up clutching her buttocks and rubbing furiously. “Ow Ow Ow,” she said.
“If you stand up again, the stroke will not count,” I said, annoyed that I had not told her this before we started. I was merciless and brought down the cane again and again, a total of thirteen times, bringing shouts, pleas and tears, and a bottom covered with red welts.
When I had finished and Miss Hunt was sobbing over the chair, Mary pulled her skirt from her collar and pulled it down. I replaced the cane and I wrote a quick note. ‘See you on the 22nd May. Do not destroy any of your canes. Tom.’
We never had a second session as someone (and it was not either Mary or I) tipped the police off about Miss Hunt’s car and she was arrested. This prompted the school to dismiss her which ended any problems Jenny had. Mary admits that she became sexually excited during my caning of Miss Hunt and I still daydream of the encounter. However, my suggestion to Mary that I purchase a cane has not been well received so my old gym shoe has to suffice.