Caught Spying

A girl finds herself in the wrong part of the school, and faces the consequences.

By Ben Barr

Author’s note:

I was fortunate to have seen a school punishment book dating from the 1980s which belonged to a certain school in New South Wales, Australia. I found one entry on the final page to be of particular interest. The details given in the punishment record are as follows: – 

Year – 1984

Girl aged 16

Offence – Spying on boys changing

Punished by – Deputy Head (Female)

No. of cane strokes – six

Position – Bending over a chair

Clothing – administered over panties

We will never know the exact details of the offence committed or of the punishment administered but I was motivated to write this fictional account.

 *          *          *

Why? Oh why, why, why did I have to be so foolish? Ten minutes ago I was a well regarded member of the sixth form, never ever in trouble of any sort and well thought of by both my teachers and my peers. And now, for the first time in my life I’m in the most terrible trouble.

Four o’clock and, as the bell went for the end of afternoon school, everybody had started to collect their stuff and head for home. I stayed behind as I needed to have a quick word with our physics master regarding a project which had to be completed by the end of the week. The problem was quickly resolved but by then my friends had already left and I was alone as I headed down the corridor towards the main entrance.

As I passed the corridor leading off to the boys changing area there was a shout and then the sound of general rumpus and laughter. I could hear it all just as clearly as if I was in the room myself and, for some reason which I can’t explain, I headed down the boys’ corridor to investigate. It was only a few paces to the senior boys’ changing room. The door had been left open but the fun and games appeared to have stopped.

I should just have turned back and headed for home but I hesitated and then one of the boys, standing with his back towards me, dropped his trousers and then his underpants, and in that moment I was lost. These were fellow sixth form boys changing for a rugby football practice and the bare bum presented to me was muscular and hairy. I stood transfixed with a strange feeling at the base of my belly. Would he turn towards me and give me a real thrill?  No, but he did bend down and quickly pull up his support strap and shorts. Then he turned and I could see it was Jason Harvey, the boys’ senior prefect, and in that moment I realised if I could see him, he most certainly could see me!

Then there was a hand on my shoulder and, as the changing room door was quickly closed, a voice said: “And what might you be doing here, girl?”

Hell and damnation! It was Mr Jones, the physics teacher, who I had left only a few minutes before. Taking me by the upper arm, he led me back out of the boys-only area.

“I don’t know what you were up to back there, Amelia,” he said. “But whatever it was I think the deputy head had better deal with it.”

And so here I am standing outside the office with a very different feeling in my belly as he no doubt gives the deputy head his version of events. Why, oh why hadn‘t I just walked away?

In a few minutes he comes out and tells me that I can go in now. With shaking knees I knock on the door and go in to face the deputy head.

She is sitting at her desk and indicates that I should come and stand on the carpet in front of her. I do so, feeling more like a little girl than a sixth former. I’ve never been on the carpet before. I can see that she is very angry.

“Mr Jones has told me what he saw and frankly, Amelia, I can hardly credit it. A girl of your age, nearly eighteen, spying on the senior boys changing for a rugby practice? It‘s shocking. Have you anything to say for yourself?”

I feel I have to make some excuse for my behaviour. “I really didn’t mean to do it, miss. I turned into the boys’ passage-way by mistake and suddenly there I was in front of the open door. I didn’t open it, miss.”

This doesn’t really seem enough, so I decide to improve the truth a little. “As soon as I realised, miss, I turned round to leave and there was Mr Jones.”

The deputy head gets to her feet. She is red in the face and clearly very, very angry.

“Your disgraceful behaviour spying on the boys was bad enough, Amelia, without lying to try and escape the consequences. Mr Jones was quite clear. He left the physics lab three or four minutes after you and you must have been outside the senior boys changing room for at least that time. You are not only a disgrace but a liar as well. You give me no alternative but to cane you, and cane you severely.”

I had known in my heart of hearts that this is what I could expect but the reality is still a shock. She turns, opens the cupboard behind her chair and selects a cane from a row of three hanging there, the longest and the thickest. I’ve never even seen a cane before and suddenly feel a deep sense of shame that, at nearly eighteen, I am to be beaten and no doubt beaten across my bottom. Will I be able to take it in silence or will I break down, howl and beg for it to stop? Dear God, please get on with it and get it over with.

She bends the cane in a semi-circle and then swishes it a couple of times through the air. I can sense the weight and flexibility and can imagine only too clearly it wrapping around my bottom. I’m sure it will hurt like the very devil, but she interrupts my thoughts.

“I’m giving you six strokes, Amelia, although I’m not sure you don’t deserve more. Anyway, this is the senior cane and I can promise you that by the time I’ve finished with you you’re going to be a very sorry young lady indeed. Now, go and get that chair from the corner and place it in the middle of the carpet with the seat facing my desk. Then get your skirt off and place it on the desk.”

I hurry to obey her orders; I just want to get this over with. The chair is just a simple hard backed chair with a leather seat and with a rung between both the front and the back legs. It is the most unpleasant piece of furniture it has ever been my misfortune to handle and I know that for the rest of my life I will shudder every time I see one like it.

I unhook and then unzip my school skirt, fold it neatly and place it on the desk. Sixth formers are not required to wear regulation underwear and my choice of panties this morning is white nylon with the front trimmed with lace. While full cut, the back panel is made entirely of transparent nylon. It will give me no protection whatsoever and the deputy head will be able to clearly see the effect of the cane as she applies the six strokes she has promised me. I keep my eyes on the floor and wait for further instructions. She lets me sweat for at least a minute before she speaks.

“I know regulation knickers are not compulsory for sixth formers but I would expect you to wear something more appropriate. At least I’ll be able to see exactly where to lay each stroke for maximum effect. Now, go and stand behind the chair and then bend right over it, keep your legs straight, and grab hold of the rung joining the front legs below the seat. Don’t let go until I tell you that you may stand.”

I do as I have been told and, as I reach down and grasp the wooden bar, I can feel my panties stretch tight as a drum across my bum. I have never been caned or even spanked before in my life, so have nothing for comparison, but I cannot believe that any beating of six strokes could possibly be worse than those she proceeds to administer to the seat of my nylon pants. I know she is hitting me just as hard as she can. I have to stay down and the only way I can do that and maintain my grip on the wooden rung, as those six excruciating weals are wrapped around my bottom, is to verbalise my pain. I grunt at every stroke and then squeal as the pain rises and goes on rising until the next stroke cuts it off.

I am still crying and blubbering some minutes after the last stroke, when she tells me I may stand. I have difficulty in doing so and can only manage it supported by the back of the chair, still quivering with pain and in floods of tears. She takes some obvious pleasure in telling me that she’s seen a twelve year old take a caning without making such an exhibition of herself. Then I am dismissed with: “Take your skirt, girl, and get out!”

Hardly able to walk, I manage to shuffle to the door and then scurry down the corridor to the girls toilets to look at the damage in the mirror behind the basin. There is no need to take my knickers down, the six swollen weals, clearly visible through the thin nylon, stretch across both buttock cheeks and two, longer than the rest, wrap half way around my right hip. Carefully I slip both hands inside my panties and gently hold my bottom. I can feel and count each weal still throbbing with pain. Carefully I step into my skirt and gently ease it up over my panties before checking my face in the mirror. I am very pale, but I can’t stay in here for ever.

As I limp down the school drive, each step makes me aware of the weals still throbbing inside my knickers, but slowly the extreme pain is fading. Away to my left, the senior boys are still at their rugby practice and I can hear their shouts. Jason Harvey will be there, of course. What must he think of me, caught spying on him? Will he learn about my caning, I wonder, and will he be pleased that I have been punished?

Perhaps he will be sorry for me. I am ashamed of what I did and even more ashamed to have been caned for it. I have decided there is no way that I shall tell my parents. But it is over; I’ve paid the price and can get on with my life. Jason Harvey is still out there and for a moment, in my mind’s eye, I can see his hairy bum and then my own bottom with those six long weals clearly visible through my panties. I wonder what he would think of them!

The End

© Ben Barr 2015


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