A girl reminisces over her old headmistress
By Julie Baker
My name is Amelia Robertson and I live in Primrose Hill, London. I’m in my mid-50s, single, and perfectly happy with where I am in my life. I have a bit of a dual existence. During the week, I work in the City of London for a large American bank in their securities trading arm. I used to be a trader but now I’m more what you would describe as senior management. I love London for many reasons, but one key advantage for me is that you can have very separate work and leisure lives. I’m serious and respectable in the office, but a bit wild and probably too adventurous out of it!
For example, I’m happy to have a boyfriend or a girlfriend. Even today, this might raise a few eyebrows amongst the banking fraternity, but for me this feels natural and perfectly normal. I love the company of other women and enjoy tender moments with them that leave me feeling warm, secure and loved. But men are more of a challenge, more of a feeling of danger and physically they are better equipped to satisfy all of my desires. This has maybe been a large part of why I have never settled and had a family. I’ve always been conflicted over whether I want to spend my life with another male or another female. Seemingly, I like both too much to make the choice.
Even today, I find it easy to be sexually attracted to both men and women. This has obvious dangers in the work environment, but outside of work this is still the big driver of my energy and zest for life. I love the encounters and how relationships develop, often with a dash of daring and an element of diving into the unknown. I often reflect on my life and wonder whether I was always destined to be this way. Why am I not like many of my friends and my sister who are happily settled with kids and an extended family? In reality, I don’t know and don’t really care. What I can trace back to, though, is a moment in my youth when I learnt two important things about myself.
It was in the autumn term at the start of my last year at school. My mother had died when I was a baby and my father brought my sister and I up single-handed. We didn’t have nannies or au pairs, and from the age of 5 he sent me and my older sister Lucy to a very traditional girls day school in Hampstead. We walked to school each day in our quite famous school uniforms of scarlet blazer, white blouse, pleated black skirt, short white socks and black lace up shoes. We felt proud of how we looked. Lucy and I were obviously sisters with jet black, long hair, slender willowy figures and pretty faces that looked as though we had just come back for two weeks in the Mediterranean. We knew that people turned their heads to look at us approvingly and this made us feel good almost to the point of arrogance. We were happy and successful kids who were hell bent on having a good time.
The school was traditional in the way it taught us, and also in all matters to do with discipline. Back in the 1980s, there was still corporal punishment which took the form of the slipper or cane, always administered solely by Miss Green, the headmistress. Miss Green was lovely and without doubt my favourite teacher throughout my school years, despite a number of visits to her study. She was warm and caring with no sign that she disliked me in any way, despite my struggles to stay within the bounds of the school rules. She was quite an attractive lady, probably in her early forties. I don’t think she was married and it was hard to tell whether she was more comfortable with girls or boys. Normally I can tell instinctively, but not with Miss Green.
No other staff members could punish us physically, but any staff member could send us to see Miss Green for one of her daily disciplinary sessions. These commenced Monday to Friday from 1.00 pm onwards outside of her study. You had to be there early and the girls involved had to organise themselves into a line based on seniority with the youngest at the front. Miss Green would come out of her study at 1.00 pm sharp and name check everyone who should have been there.
Then the process started. The first girl would be called in. We all knew that if you walked in and saw the plimsoll on the front of her desk that you were going to be slippered. Sometimes it wouldn’t be out and you knew that you were going to get a stern lecture but no slippering. The girls in the queue were a mixture of calmness and severe agitation. Some girls were even crying with nerves before they went in. I remember one small girl looking nervous as she moved towards the front of the line but I think it was her first time and she expected to only be getting a talking-to. As she entered Miss Green’s study, all I could hear, in a loud, distressed and wailing voice, was:
“Oh no, please Miss! I don’t want it! Please no, Miss!”
Then the door shut. The sight of the plimsoll on the desk told her all she needed to know, and a few minutes later you could hear the sound of a rubber sole meeting a young girl’s bottom. Four times! There were tears and much rubbing as she came out.
I would have to say that, over the years, I attended quite a few of Miss Green’s disciplinary sessions. I graduated from the front of the line in my early years to the back of the queue when I was still getting punished, even in my final year. I was 18 by then and I would have to admit that standing in line with all those younger girls to get my bottom smacked was a bit embarrassing! I was legally an adult, but was still behaving and being punished like a child. Not a good look at any level, but strangely the process itself didn’t cause me any problems.
I got to know the routine well. I can remember my first time going into that study. The plimsoll wasn’t on the desk and I got away with a stern lecture. Every other time, though, that white plimsoll was out on the desk and I acquired a severely sore bottom. Miss Green might say a few words and then what followed was always exactly the same; a bit like TV comics having certain catch phrases.
“Hang your blazer on the back of the door, Amy,” she used to say. “Take off your skirt and bend over so that you are gripping the iron bar in front of the fireplace.”
Never a word different! The old fireplace in her study was surrounded by black wrought iron work with a padded seat in each of the front corners and a low bar at about shin height connecting the two ends in front of the fireplace itself. The fire was never lit but the bar was at a good height for girls who stood back about a meter to bend over and grip it whilst they were being punished. I could see the benefits. The girl was stable and her bottom was presented at just the right height and angle to take the punishment. I’m sure the casual visitor wouldn’t notice, but I could see where girls’ clammy hands had gripped that bar over the years. In the middle of the bar there were two little areas that were rubbed smooth, and the colour there was more dark grey than black.
When in position, you knew that your time had come. I would catch sight of her out of the corner of my eye picking up that rubbery implement and laying it across my school knickers. She would never say how many she was giving you before she started. In the early years, it might have been as few as two, but latterly six seemed to be par for the course. I once got eight in one go, but that was an odd exception to the extent that I wonder if she had simply miscounted.
But I never got the cane. I’m not saying that no girl was caned in my time at the school, but I certainly wasn’t aware of any canings, and we all would have known if it had happened to any of the girls who were around my age. We knew that the cane was reserved for the most serious of offences that would be close to getting a girl expelled. But my misdemeanours were of a more petty nature such as skipping classes and being cheeky to teachers. We weren’t sure how any girl would be caned, but I would have to say that, by my final year, with time running out, I was curious to know what a caning would feel like.
But the only way to find out was for me to do something really bad and, given that I didn’t know where the divide came between a caning and expulsion, this really wasn’t an option for me. There was a lot of corporal punishment dished out in that school and I got more than my fair share. But it was for being naughty rather than thoroughly bad or evil.
However, there was another possibility that I wanted to explore. One myth that did the rounds was that if you turned up for an appointment to be slippered, and you weren’t wearing the school regulation knickers, then Miss Green would confiscate your underwear and you would then receive your punishment on your bare bottom. I found this prospect quite appealing, although my friends thought it sounded utterly horrendous. We didn’t know of anyone who had been so apparently foolish as to knowingly report for a slippering without the required underwear. I could see why there needed to be an extra sanction under these circumstances; you knew what was coming your way and it was therefore an open act of defiance to be wrongly dressed.
I decided that next time I had an appointment with Miss Green I would test out this so called myth.
And this brings me to that day in the early part of the autumn term in the final year of my school career. I got up that morning knowing that I was going to be slippered by Miss Green that afternoon. Nothing unusual in that. Instead of putting on my regulation black knickers I put on a nice pair of white satin panties. I loved those panties. They blazed white against my warm skin and hugged the curves of my slim but firm bottom. I loved the look of them but they were certainly not my most sexy pair of knickers. I didn’t want to appear to be rude to Miss Green and they had a full back, fully covering my bottom. I could have worn one of my lovely thongs but that would have totally lacked any degree of subtlety!
I was last into her study that day and soon after I heard the familiar words.
“Hang your blazer on the back of the door, Amy. Take off your skirt and bend over so that you are gripping the iron bar in front of the fireplace.”
This I did, and it wasn’t long before it was confirmed there was an issue.
“Amy, what are you thinking?” she asked in a soft voice. More disappointment and confusion than anything else.
“Your underwear! You know this isn’t the right way to come in here today. To be honest, I’m at a loss to know what to do with you.”
“I’m sorry, Miss. My head was all muddled when I got up this morning,” was all I could manage. “It won’t happen again.”
This was a bit weak, but I could hardly tell her that it was a deliberate ploy to find out what would actually happen.
“OK, well, you’ll need to take them off and I’ll give them back to you at the end of term. After you’ve done with being in here, I suggest that you go to see Matron to check if there is a suitable pair of knickers for you in lost property.”
At this point, I was starting to think the myth was turning into fact. I took off my panties and handed them to Miss Green. I stood there. Shoes, short white socks and my school blouse with nothing in between. My long slender legs were bare and my close-fitting blouse came down to just below my hips. My bottom was exposed and I could feel the cool air circulating around the areas that had previously been protected by my underwear.
“Now Amy, I want you back in position in front of the fire and I’ll deal with this and the previous matter.”
As I turned back towards the fire, I saw Miss Green return her white plimsoll to the drawer in her desk and walk over to a tall cupboard to the right of the fireplace. This cupboard was in my full sight as I bent over again, and I then saw Miss Green taking out a long slender cane. It was about a meter in length, light brown in colour and had a crooked handle at one end. It was thinner than I expected but I wasn’t sure whether this was good news or bad news.
She walked around me and gently slid my blouse up my back so that it was gathered just beneath my breasts. Most of my back was bared and she then ran her hand over my naked bottom as if to check it’s soundness.
“Please cup your back, Amy, so that your bottom sticks out a bit more. Giving you a slippering is relatively straight forward, but today you are getting the cane. This requires a bit more concentration from me as I’ll be trying the space out the strokes across your bottom. Your bottom is quite small so I need you to be in the perfect position.”
I adjusted the shape of my back, hoping that Miss Green would then be satisfied and we could get on with the punishment.
“Also Amy, I’ve got a bit of a theory about you and why you are so frequently in my study for slipperings. After I’ve caned you, we can then sit and have a bit of a chat about this.”
Overall, this was a dramatic turnaround in events. Yes, I had been curious to know what would happen if I wasn’t correctly kitted out for a punishment session with Miss Green, and separately I had been wondering what a caning would feel like, but I hadn’t anticipated getting answers to both questions in one go! Bent over, my lower back, bottom and legs down to my ankles were exposed and in Miss Green’s full view. I was gripping onto the iron bar, back almost parallel to the floor, legs clamped together and my bottom presented at an easy height for Miss Green to apply the cane.
She gave me four hard strokes. Unlike a slippering, where the blows came in reasonably quick succession, the caning seemed much more measured with quite long intervals between the strokes, maybe up to 20 seconds. There was much more of a bite from the cane, generating an intense stinging sensation rather than the warm glow that I was used to during a slippering. Also it hurt a lot more! The first one came as a considerable shock. Unlike the plimsoll I could hear the sound of the cane cutting through the air before it landed on my bottom. The warning was of little benefit, though, and the pain was intense, building more as each stroke was executed. I didn’t cry out, but there were tears running down my cheeks after the fourth one.
“I think that’s enough, Amy,” said Miss Green in her usual calming voice.
Normally after I had been slippered, Miss Green would check that I was alright and might gently touch my shoulder or rub my back in a way that reassured me she was still on my side. After the caning, I could see that she was a bit concerned that she had really hurt me. She took me in her arms and we stood silent and stationary until I regained my composure.
There were a couple of easy chairs by the window, and she gestured for me to take a seat in one of them. By this stage, I had put my skirt back on but I was conscious I was not wearing knickers, so as I sat with my legs to one side. My bottom was still smarting terribly. Miss Green took the other seat and started talking.
“I can see you found that quite tough, Amy,” she started off with. “You are an otherwise a quite mature 18-year-old girl in the upper school, but you seem totally unable to keep out of trouble and out of my study on these occasions. This has been a bit of a mystery to me, but I think I’ve now got it. I’ve concluded that you have somehow enjoyed and got pleasure out of the times over the years that you’ve ended up in here to get your bottom slippered. There doesn’t appear to be any other logical conclusion. If this is true, then I’m wasting my time because this isn’t the way a punishment is supposed to work. You’re not supposed to like it! So on that basis you will, from now onwards, be caned every time that you are here to see me for punishment. Is that clear?”
What could I say? The penny had dropped for her, and now it had also done so for me. In that moment, I realised that I did enjoy much of the process of being slippered. The after-glow from a session with Miss Green left me with a lovely feeling for some time afterwards, and I also enjoyed her tender touches after she had dealt with me. Maybe this was fulfilling a need that could have been satisfied by the mother that I never had?
After a few minutes chat, I was on my way out of her study and heading towards the Senior Common Room where I knew that my friends would be waiting for me. It was traditional that, after a visit to Miss Green’s study, any one of our close friendship group who had been punished would then let the others see the damage inflicted. This normally entailed turning your back, lifting your skirt and lowering your knickers. My bottom was always quick to colour up after a slippering, displaying a radiant glow with my skin turning from slippery smooth to something more like warm, red rubber. This time was different and I could feel the shock and surprise amongst the onlookers when I lifted my skirt to reveal my naked and scarred bottom.
“Wow Amy, you’ve been caned!” said one of the girls somewhat unhelpfully.
Another of my friends produced a mirror and I had a look. Four distinct red lines with equal spaces between were crammed in across my relatively small bottom. The cane marks were still throbbing and would do for the rest of that day. They were slightly raised and as they healed they were replaced by some dark bruising that took almost a week to totally disappear. Only four strokes, but it felt to me like quite a thrashing. Needless to say, I didn’t bother going to see Matron for any replacement knickers. I quite liked the feeling of going commando. Another lesson learnt that day, which I still benefit from.
However, that day did confirm to me that I had a deep-seated desire to have my bottom spanked, but with a plimsoll or soft shoe rather than a cane. This has never left me to this day and there were no more disciplinary visits to Miss Green’s study during my school career. The chat with Miss Green also confirmed a feeling that had been developing inside me for some time. I had assumed I was wholly conventional in that I had enjoyed the company of boys and that my female buddies were there to provide me with fun and friendship only. After that day, I realised I had a need for certain girls in my life who could provide me with love and emotional support.
When I look back now, I realise these were good lessons learnt, at the age of 18, which have subsequently helped me to lead a much happier and more fulfilled life.
© Julie Baker 2022
Julie welcomes contact from her readers. Email at: firstname.lastname@example.org or Julie’s Twitter address is: @JulieBaker_cane