A School Secretary Phones In Sick

A school secretary is caught out.

By Sally Cavendish

“Mrs Wilson? It’s Michele. I’m afraid…” The secretary made a theatrical croaking sound to emphasise the seriousness of her condition. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to come to work today. I seem to be coming down with something.”

“You poor thing.” The words sounded cold, robotic, even a touch sarcastic. If Mrs Wilson was feeling sorry for her bed-ridden secretary, she had an odd way of showing it.

“It could be the flu, or it might just be a bad cough. I’m seeing my GP this afternoon.”

“Quite so.”

“And I’ll bring in a sick note tomorrow, of course.”

“Of course.” Mrs Wilson tapped her pencil angrily on her desk. She had strong views on the practice of ‘throwing a sickie’ as she called it. She had never done it herself, not once in thirty years, and she had no sympathy with the younger generation who seemed to do it at the drop of a hat. In the case of young Michele Dean, she had further grounds for wrath.

It did not take a trained physician to work out that the main reason for Michele’s indisposition this morning was that she had been out drinking the night before. The headmistress had seen her with her own eyes, tottering down the high street at half-past eleven, leaning on her boyfriend’s shoulder and clearly the worse the wear. Coming down with something indeed! She had never heard such a pathetic excuse for a common-or-garden hangover. Well, she wouldn’t be going out ‘on the lash’ again in a hurry, thought the headmistress, smiling grimly to herself. The only lash in young Michele Dean’s life was going to be the lash of a cane on that pert bottom of hers.

Blissfully ignorant of the headmistress’s thought processes, Michele reported to work the next morning in the best of moods. Her head had cleared, she was clutching a note from her GP in her handbag and she sashayed into the headmistress’s outer office without a care in the world. It was only when she saw a note on her desk, asking her to report to the headmistress immediately, that she experienced the first twitches of anxiety.

“Yes, Mrs Wilson?”

“You’re feeling better, I take it?” There was an icy sarcasm in the head’s voice.

“Oh yes, Mrs Wilson. Much better.”

“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?”

“Well, I suppose. Er, well, yes, of course.”

“Good! Because…” Mrs Wilson paused for maximum effect. “I should not like to discipline a member of staff who was not in perfect health.”

“D-discipline?”

“You heard me, Michele. The more I think about your disgraceful behaviour yesterday, the angrier I feel. How you had the cheek to call in sick just hours after I had seen you, with my own eyes, drunk in the town centre.”

“But, Mrs Wilson!” Wheedling, Michele held out the sick note which she had managed to extract from her doctor. She wheedled in vain.

“I don’t care how many sick notes you produce, Michele. I know the symptoms of a hang-over when I see one, young lady. And I had better warn you now that members of staff who think they can pull wool over my eyes, and absent themselves from school, are sorely mistaken. Sorely mistaken,” she repeated, with the emphasis on the first word. “You know my views on members of staff stepping out of line. I am sure you remember what happened to your friend, Celia, after that unsavoury episode on sports day last year.”

Michele nodded miserably.

“Then you know what to expect. Instant dismissal, without a reference, or a good caning.”

‘G-good?’

“Twelve strokes of the senior cane. Pants down.”

The discussion was clearly over, at least as far as the headmistress was concerned. She turned her back on the petrified secretary, marched over to the corner cupboard, fished out her senior cane, as promised, then advanced menacingly towards the centre of the room.

“Now bend yourself over my desk, young lady. I haven’t got all day.”

“But, Mrs Wilson…”

“I’m waiting, Michele.”

Miserably, realising that the game was up, the young secretary turned round, bent across the desk, raised her skirt and, inch by humiliating inch, lowered her white cotton panties to the top of her thighs.

The headmistress smiled grimly. There was something undeniably pleasing about a bared young female bottom, and young Michele Dean was well blessed in this department. The milky-white buttocks, cleft down the middle, had an exquisite symmetry, and with the smooth skin stretched taut, the whole effect was ravishing to the eye.

Best of all, and it was a phenomenon which Mrs Wilson had observed many times, was the fact that the buttocks were quivering slightly, as if fearful of what was to follow. ‘Good,’ thought the headmistress, ‘let them quiver.’ She gave a sharp practise swing of her cane, which made a loud swishing sound and caused the prostrate buttocks to quiver even more. She was going to enjoy caning Miss Dean.

The first stroke of a caning always set the general tone. It needed to be firm and emphatic to deliver, in the old phrase, a short sharp shock. The cane needed to bite into the flesh of the buttocks, not simply caress it. And it needed to produce an audible reaction from the victim. Not a loud scream, that would be excessive, more of a quiet grunt to show that the cane had done its business.

As Michele duly grunted in response to the punishing impact of the cane, Mrs Wilson’s smile broadened. She watched with satisfaction as the familiar red tramlines which are the hallmark of the cane, tattooed on the bottoms of generations of English schoolchildren, appeared on the young secretary’s squirming bottom. And to think there were eleven more stingers like that to follow! Poor Michele. Poor, poor Michele.

A second sizzling stroke was fast followed by a third, followed by a truly ferocious fourth, which produced a piercing squeal from the already distressed secretary. Mrs Wilson paused theatrically, then administered strokes five, six and seven in blistering succession, before pausing once again. Grimly, she took note of the fact that Michele’s shoulders were now shaking, a tell-tale sign that she was sobbing.

‘Good,’ thought Mrs Wilson, bringing the cane lashing down once again.

Swish! Thwack! Swish! Thwack!

Only three to go, but there was no easing off from the avenging fury that was the headmistress. It was her long-held conviction that a six-of-the-best caning should increase in severity the longer the punishment lasted; and she was damned if she was going to approach a twelve-of-the-best caning any differently.

She directed the final stroke where she knew it would do most harm, on the crease where buttocks meet thighs, and was gratified to see Michele react like so many of predecessors, letting out an animal howl of pain before frantically rubbing her buttocks while hopping up and down on the spot, all modesty gone.

“I hope you’ve learn your lesson,” said Mrs Wilson quietly, when the secretary had finally composed herself and eased her panties back over her throbbing bottom. “I don’t enjoy having to administer corporal punishment, particularly to an adult, but I have learnt from long experience that it produces a marked improvement in behaviour. A very marked improvement,” she added, with a grim smile, remembering the livid red stripes with which she had just decorated Michele Dean’s sassy young backside.

“Yes, Mrs Wilson,” said the chastened secretary. “I have learnt my lesson. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

It was only when she was on the bus home, squirming uncomfortably in her seat, that she remembered what the headmistress had said about not enjoying administering corporal punishment, and she thought, ‘Honestly? Honestly?’

The End

© Sally Cavendish 2018