A caning described, but there’s a twist
By Kane Strokes
She stood in front of the headmaster’s desk, the cane out and laying on his desk.
“Go to the secretary’s office and ask her to come in and act as a witness.”
” Please sir,” she said. “Can’t we do this privately, after school?”
“That would be most irregular, I’d have to ask you to sign a disclaimer, and state no impropriety happened.”
“Yes, sir,” she agreed.
“Four o’clock, don’t be late,” he told her.
The day passed slowly. She looked at the work she’d neglected; her laziness was now to cost her six of the best. She told her friends she was staying late to work in the library. Her stomach churned at the thought of her appointment later that afternoon as she watched the clock tick slowly to the agreed time.
The bell went for the end of school; the pupils left. She made her way to the library to continue the work she had to catch up with. All too soon, the librarian asked her to leave. It was time to close. She packed her bags, then walked slowly to visit the headmaster.
He heard her knock the door.
Timidly she entered, her eyes fixed on the cane that was to be used to punish and discipline her. She was handed the disclaimer to sign as the headmaster picked up the cane.
“You are over 18. You will take this on your bare bottom, raise your skirt, pull your knickers down and touch your toes.”
She put her hands under her skirt, her thumbs in the waistband of her knickers. She eased them down, over her bottom, to her knees; her knickers fell to her ankles. She raised her skirt and meekly obeyed and touched her toes. She looked behind her, only to be told to look at the floor. It was probably the same patch of floor innumerable errant schoolboys and schoolgirls had stared at before her.
“You will remain in this position until I tell you to stand.”
She would have heard the swish of the cane as it sped purposefully towards it’s target, and the crack as the cane bounced off her bending bottom. The sound reverberated around the hard walls covered only with certificates and pictures of years past.
She gasped. The cane’s first fiery kiss had left a welt rising across her sit spots. The pain grew as the headmaster waited to deliver the next stroke. He wanted this caning to be effective and remembered for a long time.
He raised the cane again; he was aiming just below the first stroke. The flick of his wrist, perfected over many years of caning the bottoms of errant scholars; the cane accelerated to deliver its next payload of pain, exactly where the headmaster had intended.
She gasped again. The headmaster waited. Controlled and methodical he would wait until he was sure the pain had peaked before swishing her sit spots again. With accuracy gained through practice and experience, he delivered the stroke fractionally below the previous two. This time she yelped; he could hear her crying gently.
Twice more the cane swished across her sit spots, the headmaster as accurate as ever. He knew when she inspected the damage later she would see five perfectly spaced horizontal welts traversing her bottom.
He raised the cane for the last stroke, slightly changing his stance. This was to be the most punishing stroke of all. The cane angled, it lashed down crossing the previous welts. She yelled and cried, her knees buckled, but she found the courage to stay in place until the headmaster told her to rise.
Carefully she pulled her knickers up over her swollen bottom. Each movement, though, caused the fabric to rub against the sore welts.
“You will bring your work to me for inspection at midday tomorrow. If it isn’t finished, you can return here tomorrow afternoon for another six. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” She answered, still drying her eyes.
She spent the evening laying on her front, naked from the waist down, with a towel soaked in iced water spread over her buttocks, at the same time trying to concentrate and catch up with the work she’d neglected. She spent the night sleeping on her stomach.
In the morning she selected a loose fitting skirt. She wanted to leave her knickers off, but wasn’t brave enough to do so. She’d have to suffer the fabric rubbing the still sore welts.
Twenty-three year old, newly qualified teacher, Jane Caversham waited for the class to be seated.
“Good morning class.”
“Good morning Miss,” they replied in unison.
“Today we will study the Battle of Trafalgar.”
It wasn’t what she had intended, but this way she could stand, draw maps and explain tactics. She had looked at the thin cushion on the teacher’s chair; even that wouldn’t help ease the discomfort of sitting today.
She looked to her desk, the pile of end of term reports she had neglected. They would be ready by midday, of that she was determined, and she’d avoid another six from the headmaster. She cursed herself for not reading the small print in her contract.
© Kane Strokes 2016