A second by second account of a girl being caned.

By Joanna Jones

The moment I walk in I know I’m doomed. My fate is sealed, I am done for.

I knew it anyway, had been anticipating the dread call all morning, but it is still awful to see it so starkly confirmed.

It’s the chair that says it all, sited oddly with its back against his desk.

Sited for me to mount I am sure.

My mouth is dry as I hear Miss Frobisher close the door behind us. Clearly she is staying here. I guess that is why I had to wait, wait till she was on a free period.

Whatever the case I feel sick. I have been at the school sufficiently long to know the formula well enough: Female teacher in, equals skirt up! Well, I should say, at least skirt up. I hope he is not going to make me take ‘them’ down.

I bitterly regret having bunked off yesterday. It was hot and my boyfriend had the day off. We had a great time in Brighton.

Trouble was the school checked my absence with mum. I was rumbled. Mum told them they could do what they want with me. Furious, she let me know that last night.

I protested that could mean the cane and, worse, the headmaster might take my knickers down. Her cold, irate reply to both the cane and the knickers down issue was the same, the same frigid words: “I hope he does, young lady, I hope he does. It’s no more than you deserve!”

Result? Not much sleep as I tossed in anticipation and dread.

Dread anticipation of this, of course. Of being in this office, of being given something to remind me that eighteen or not I am to follow the school rules. An anticipation coming to fruition at the beginning of the last period before lunch, when my Form Mistress appeared in my English class to ask for a chat.

The twist in my stomach was not helped by the smirks I could see on my friends’ faces as I left. That ‘chat’; it was more of an uncomfortable lecture as Miss Frobisher reminded me of those obligations to follow the rules. Just because I am eighteen does not mean I can do what I like. I have to listen to a long justification of why truanting is ‘bad’, as if I did not know.

It was a lecture very meekly listened to, full of apologies, how it would never happen again. I even managed a few self pitying tears as I declared how stupid I’d been. After all, there had still been that small hope that somehow I might be forgiven, let off the punishment I so dread.

A small hope that had, of course, evaporated as I entered the Headmaster’s office. Dreadful though my telling off was, what is to happen now will no doubt be worse,

Finally I wrench my eyes off the waiting chair and manage to look at our headmaster. He is sitting at his desk looking up at me rather frostily over a file he has been reading, a small black and white passport sized photo in the corner on the front of an eleven year old me indicates whose information is inside. Suddenly my mouth becomes dry, opens in a horrified “oh!”. A cane is already out, neatly lined across the front of the desk. Oddly, its light brown colour matches the desk itself, camouflaging it against my instant detection.

Hi slips off his suit jacket as he stands. Now in his shirt sleeves I know he means business, an altogether unpleasant business as far as my bottom is concerned. He picks up the cane as he walks round to face me. At six foot tall he towers over my five foot four frame; one of those ‘school rules’ precludes any significant heel on our shoes.

I am quaking as he holds that rod in both hands and flexes it menacingly in front of my nose.

“Has Miss Frobisher fully explained to you why you are here, Harper?”

“Yes, sir.” I mumble.

“Speak up girl!” Is his sharp response.

I repeat my acknowledgement a little more loudly.

“I am not going to waste time lecturing you again, Harper, have you anything to say for yourself?” He demands.

I am shaking now, literally quaking as I stare at the wicked rattan cane in his hands. I put on my most penitent, pleading look. With, I hope, big doleful eyes I stammer out an apology.

He has, of course, no doubt seen it all before. There is no change in that cold, implacable face. My despair deepens; my cane-free record is moments from its end.

“I am afraid ‘sorry’ is not sufficient to deal with your blatant disregard of the rules of this school. Put your knees on that chair and bend over the desk.

I give a final pleading look to that implacable face then, capitulating, I take the final few steps to my fate.

Sickly I ascend onto the chair. I take a breath, then another before my final voluntary act, draping my upper body onto his desktop, feeling my breasts press against the rigid wood.

It is the headmaster’s voice again. “Miss Frobisher.”

The reply is clear. “Yes, headmaster.” Her footsteps approach. I feel her hands on the skirt hem, and it is raised up, right up as far as it can go. Right over my back. My blouse is pushed up too leaving the small of my back bare.

Please let that be it, please…

But no, her hands are in the waist of my tights. Gently her nimble fingers peel the tan nylon down off my poor soft bottom to fully reveal my plain, rather functional, white cotton knickers. I was wearing something much more adventurous yesterday, not that I let my boyfriend, David, have more than a playful glimpse.

For a brief moment I have a moment of relief they at least are still in place, but no, it is only a pause before the inevitable.

I close my eyes and bite my lip to prevent the tears starting as those deft fingers are inserted at my waist. Seconds later I am exposed. In my involuntary, lewd pose I know the headmaster will see everything that I have, the first man to know that I have chosen to shave down there, there will be no wisps of hair visible as he looks at the area directly under the cleft of my buttocks. I feel sick, utterly sick. My mother’s ‘hope’ has been realised. Dully I wonder if she actually explicitly requested this humiliation. I would not put it past her; she always is so bloody strict on school things.

Whatever the case I am now ‘prepared’. Miss Frobisher is coming round the desk. She takes a firm grip of my outstretched arms. “Be brave and it will soon be over.” she whispers.

Over? I don’t want ‘it’ to even start!

“Headmaster.” She says, his invitation to begin.

I realise I don’t even know how many I am due. Can I ask? Should I ask? Fear gets the better of me. I grit my teeth instead. Maybe it is better not to know anyway.

My body is panicking as the cool air lightly caresses my bottom. A bottom now enjoying its final few pain free moments for quite some time. Breathe slowly, I instruct myself; don’t get carried away in panic.

A touch, then a second. Oh no! It’s coming.

Swish. Crack!

A brief moment of mere shock before a blaze of pain ignites every sense in my body.

I gasp out an “Oh!” The sting is far worse than I ever expected.

There is a pause for some reason. I imagine the red tramline of disgrace now forming on my bum, imagine the Head watching it do so. Maybe that’s why he’s taking his time.

Suddenly I hear a second crack! I surprise myself and limit my audible reaction to a gasp. The terrible sting is now far worse, even after it is given it seems to keep rising. I wish he’d just get on with it without these dreadful gaps between each blow to spin out the torture.

Thwack!

A third cut has landed on my poor rump. I bite my lip as the dreadful sting surging through me increases. Miss Frobisher’s grip prevents me surging upwards, stops my hands going back to try to assuage the agony, or protect my rear from further infliction. The pain is too much I know I am nearly broken, how many more I wonder?

Was my trip to Brighton really worth this?

Crack!

No, I decide. “Please, I’ll never do it again.” I beg after the scream.

A plea that is to be ignored. “Silence, girl, we are only halfway through your punishment!” Declares the Head.

I am lost, a sob wracks my body. My awful doom continues.

The End

© Joanna Jones 2014