A girl’s experience in the headmistress’s study. By a new writer to us, with the grahic illustrations also by the author
By Angela Fox
‘Friday afternoon at four o’clock, and once again I am sitting on this hard chair,’ I thought. ‘Why do I do this to myself?’ I wasn’t given long to ponder. Within a minute the so-called traffic light outside her door turned from red, meaning do not disturb, to green, directing whoever was waiting on this damned chair to knock on the door for entry.
I stood up, smoothed my gymslip into place, making sure the broad knife- edged box pleats were perfect and prayed my hair was neat and tidy. Then I nervously knocked on the door and, when I saw the white sign below the traffic lights blink ‘Enter’, I turned the brass doorknob and pushed the heavy door open.
I am sure the office behind the door was meant to be intimidating. Dark wood panelling went all the way up the wall to the ceiling, the back and far wall were lined with mahogany panelled bookshelves, the polished wooden floor with its thick oriental rug, the large and heavy oaken desk with its leather executive style swivel armchair and the curtained window behind the desk that looked over the school playing fields all added up to an ambiance of power over any poor soul who was sent there against their will.
I was, of course, such a person and I had no doubt that the woman sitting behind the desk would both exercise and enjoy the power she had over me. The said woman was the headmistress of St. Anne’s boarding school; an all-girls boarding school that boasted a history going back over a hundred years with stupid traditions, discipline and old-fashioned school uniforms to match.
It wasn’t my favourite place in the world to be and this office was my most hated place within the school. Nor, for that matter, was the headmistress my favourite person in the world, despite the fact that she was very tall and extraordinarily beautiful. She, of course, made attempts to hide her beauty since I supposed that feature would not have helped her role as a strict school disciplinarian.
Today she wore a simple yet somewhat stark grey dress pulled in at her waist by a broad belt. It had a simple, white collar closed by a brooch. The dress did nothing for her figure but she often dressed very conservatively in dark business suits and high collared blouses, and her skirts seemed designed to hide what I suspected were simply gorgeous thighs. Occasionally she even dressed in tweed for God’s sake! Even worse, she kept her luscious blonde mane in a ridiculously tight bun as though she were some escapee from a Victorian melodrama. I was pretty sure the glasses she occasionally wore on the end of her nose were actually plain glass, for there seemed to be nothing wrong with her eyesight. I suppose if circumstances had been different I might have actually had a crush on her. I had seen her smile on occasion giving her a generous and very caring disposition to those she favoured.
Obviously, I was not so favoured. All I ever saw was a cold calculating woman whose calculations always seemed hell-bent on humiliating me, hurting me and generally keeping me from enjoying the things I loved most. Even when she smiled at me it seemed that her smile was one of personal enjoyment as though she were privately about to enjoy my suffering. She wasn’t smiling now. She looked irritated, probably because I was interrupting her from developing some new and ridiculously tedious school rule that would make our lives even worse.
“Oh, Saunders, it’s you. You are becoming a regular Friday afternoon annoyance. Has somebody sent you to see me once again for an infraction?”
I tried to smile to show that I wasn’t scared, all the while conscious of an annoying tremor that had suddenly developed in my right thigh.
“Err, y-ye-yes, Miss Haversham. Though it is probably minor. Miss Green, err, the games Mistress…”
“Yes, you stupid girl, I know who Miss Green is,” she interrupted. “Slip!” She commanded, holding out her right hand.
Despite my tremor, I moved in front of her desk to hand her the slip of red paper given to me by Miss Green. Presumably, punishment slips were always red so everyone could see them and know of your humiliation when you had been given one. We weren’t allowed to put them in our pockets or fold them, and woe betides you if, when you handed it in, that it was creased or marked in any fashion other than who by ever who had handed it to you. Sadly, I knew about such things because I seemed to collect more than my fair share.
I brought my hand out from behind my back where I had tried to hide it and handed her the slip. She took it from me and tilted her head back to read the offensive piece of paper as though it were a vile piece of filth. She read it and then gave one of those sighs that indicated her disgust, frustration and general displeasure at everything in the world. In fact, I suspected she was just a good actress and actually, she delighted in receiving such ‘gifts’ from me.
“Saunders,” she began. “You are fifteen now. Aren’t you a little old to be poking your tongue out at another girl? If you were eight I could understand it, but Miss Green says you did it as an expression of your disapproval that Marlene Waters was chosen to be the first team goalkeeper to start the match. Such a puerile display of rudeness seems unbelievable of a St. Anne’s girl of your age.”
“I am eighteen, Miss Haversham. My birthday was last week,” I countered before I could stop myself.
‘Damn,’ I thought, ‘How stupid could I be? It must be my nerves; this woman always did this to me.’
“I thought you were fifteen when I spanked you just a couple of weeks ago. I think I should check the punishment book.”
Suddenly I was nervous that she might actually check the book and realise she had only leathered me on the hand with her junior strap. She had assumed I was only fifteen and I hadn’t bothered to correct her, knowing that I would have gotten a more serious punishment if had admitted I was seventeen.
“No, Ma’am. I was seventeen then. I am now eighteen.”
“Well, it probably doesn’t matter except I can’t imagine someone who is supposed to be a mature eighteen would put on such a vulgar display of rudeness. How humiliating for your peers, Miss Waters and Miss Green? I think it is only fair that I equally humiliate you! Take your blazer off and put the straight-backed chair in the centre of the room. I shall take you over my knee and spank your bare little bottom as though you were an eight-year-old.
“Then I shall give you the proper punishment with a half-a-dozen of the slipper. And, considering you are making far too many appearances in my office and that as an eighteen-year-old you are now eligible to receive the full senior cane, you should think yourself lucky because I can assure you that should you ever visit my office again with a red slip, that is what you will receive!”
I gulped. I had already experienced the cane from Miss Haversham and knew what a wallop a cane could pack. It took hours to get over the awful pain it inflicted and the marks usually lasted a week so that everyone you swam, did games or took showers with knew what you had done. And I knew that those experiences had been with her so-called junior canes, and the rumours were that the dreaded senior cane was a thousand times worse.
But to get caned for merely sticking my tongue out at one of my friends seemed unbelievably harsh, even for St. Anne’s. The cane was usually reserved for being out of bounds, fighting, smoking or being incredibly disrespectful to members of staff. Even then there were usually warnings. I was once given four of the junior cane from Miss Haversham for being caught off school grounds without a weekend pass when a member of staff had seen me one Saturday in the village. I had known the risks I was taking but the memory of those four strokes was still ghastly and I had vowed never to be so silly again.
The humiliation of having to go over Miss Haversham’s lap for a childish hand spanking was pretty bad, though I knew the real physical punishment was going to be the slipper. The slipper was actually a large heavy plimsoll or games shoe which could cause significant bruising. I couldn’t imagine how bad six strokes of that slipper would be, let alone a senior cane. The thought of the cane made me angry enough at the injustice of it to throw care to the wind and protest that the threat of a cane for such a minor bit of fun was so unfair.
“But Headmistress, while I admit that sticking my tongue out is a bit vulgar, it was actually done in good fun to my friend. Marlene is in my dorm and we are good friends. It wasn’t hurtful. Surely the cane would be far too severe even for…”
I trailed off, realizing I was going too far. “Go on, Miss Saunders. Say it! You mean too severe even for me?”
“Err, I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, Ma’am. I thought the cane was for serious offences such as fighting and the like. I stuck my tongue out at Marlene as a bit of fun, not because I wanted to hurt her.” I whined, hating myself for sounding like that.
“For once, I agree with you,” sniffed Miss Haversham. “However, you are mistaken if you think I would cane you for inappropriate facial expressions, vulgar though they are. The threat of the cane is merely a warning to you. You are visiting my office far too frequently for poor behaviour and I wish you to understand that the consequences of further such visits to my office with a red slip will be very serious. You are no longer a child. Consider it a severe warning, as it were so that you will be better informed next time you choose to misbehave. Now, get that chair into position and ease your school knickers to your knees and let us have no more time wasting.”
I finished placing the chair as she directed and took down my knickers, watching her get up from behind her desk, smooth out her dress and position herself on the chair. Then, under her direction, I positioned myself to her right and gave her my left arm as she guided me over her lap. I had of course been in this position countless times as a junior at the school, both over teachers’ laps and once over hers. While it is meant to be humiliating, I didn’t really care. There was no one else in the room and I wouldn’t have to admit I was spanked like a ten-year-old to my friends. I would merely admit to the slipper.
I put my hands flat on the floor on one side and rested the toes of my black patent Mary Janes’s on the floor on the other side, and made myself relax as she lifted my heavy pleated gymslip skirt and shirt over my back to expose my bottom. I felt a little thrill of cold air brush against my exposed rear cheeks and I stiffened as I felt her first gaze at, and then stroke my buttocks with her right hand.
“Relax, Saunders, I know this is not a new experience for you. Hopefully, you will realize what a stupid little girl you are and that someone your age should never be so humiliated by being put in such a position.”
Her hand suddenly started to pound down as though she had something to prove. I wasn’t exactly comfortable, her blows certainly stung and she seemed to be really putting extra effort into it; but it wasn’t too unpleasant either. I didn’t struggle, there was really no need since her spanks were well within my tolerance levels and, in any case, it was pointless since she could easily control me by strength alone. In her early forties, she was supremely fit and athletic, still enjoying marathons on occasional weekends. She was over six feet and very strong, whereas I was merely five feet two in heels and she outweighed me by several stones.
Soon my bum took on a pleasant warmth and, as my body adapted both to the position and sensations in my rump, I began to wonder if I could have enjoyed it if my tormenter had perhaps been doing it out of fun or, well, never mind. Despite the fact that she hated me, I actually began to wonder what it would be like if only she liked me and was doing it out of – love?
She was beautiful and I started to fantasize that what was happening was for both our mutual pleasures. I am not sure how long it went on. I would guess she gave me somewhere between a dozen and twenty spanks, and only the first couple meant anything as far as real pain went. Soon the stinging sensation merged into a fiery warmth that was excruciatingly pleasant, though I suspect that, in reality, my bottom just became a little numb.
“Really, Saunders, I do believe this is hurting my hand more than it is hurting your bottom, and if it wasn’t such a ridiculous thought I would swear you are enjoying it! Now get off my lap and bend yourself over my desk. Let us see how much you enjoy a half dozen of my slipper.”
In a bit of a daze, probably from being in the head down position (at least that was one possibility), I slowly got up and, a little groggily, went over her desk. My knickers were still on my knees and though they hobbled me a bit, the tight elastic in the leg holes held them in position and I made it safely over the intervening distance and lowered my chest on to the blotter of her desk.
I had been in this position before for the slipper and knew to stretch my hands forward and hook my fingers over the edge of the desk. At St. Anne’s it was alright to scream or cry when you were punished but it was an unforgivable sin to move out of position until your disciplinarian had finished with you or given you instructions to move. It was also unforgivable to use any word that could be considered offensive, and breaking the discipline etiquette would always result in an increased number of strokes being awarded.
Another part of the etiquette that all girls knew was that the strokes of any punishment given with an implement such as a strap, slipper or cane, had to be counted. Over the knee spankings with the hand were often given at a spanking rate that prohibited counting strokes, but for any implements, the schoolgirl was always told how many strokes had been awarded and knew to both ask for each stroke individually and then thank her disciplinarian for the stroke before politely asking for the next one.
And so, I waited in position while Miss Haversham put her spanking chair back against the wall, went to her glass cabinet and removed a heavy plimsoll. I had felt it before and was under no illusion as to how much this was going to hurt.
Eventually, she walked back over to me, readjusted my gymslip and shirt tail so once again my buttocks were on full display and said: “Well Saunders, you may begin as soon as you are ready.”
I almost grinned to myself wondering what she would do if I gave her a smart arsed comment, but wisely I decided to play it straight.
“Thank you, Ma’am. I am ready. Would you please deliver the first stroke?”
There was an almost soft whisper of the slipper, or perhaps the sleeve of her dress swishing through the air, and then a short loud SMACK as the stiff rubber sole bit into my poor bottom and, once again, I marvelled how something so simple could cause such a severe blast of pain. I yelped in anguish, startled as I usually am by the first blow. But I soon had myself under control as I breathed in great gasps of air and let them whoosh out. I knew if I could count to five, the pain would recede to a just tolerable level when I could ask her for the next stroke. At least I had held my position. In fact, the stroke had been slightly less painful than I had anticipated, probably because my bottom was already warmed up from her previous hand-spanking.
“That was the first stroke Miss Haversham. Thank you. Please, may I have my second stroke.”
Once again, the slipper crashed into my bared bottom and I shuddered in pain. It was truly awful and, unbidden, the first tear dribble down my left cheek. Again, I counted silently to five and, as the crushing pain began to subside a little I did my heavy breathing trick and between gasps, I managed to say: “Thank you for my second stroke, Ma’am. Please, may I have the third stroke.”
I felt a deep shudder as the damned slipper pushed me hard onto the desk. The force was unbelievable and so was the crushing pain. I had had the slipper before and it was always awful, yet somehow it always seemed worse each time. Eventually, I was able to get my breathing under control and once again I thanked her and asked for my fourth stroke. I am pretty sure she hit me with almost all her strength but my bottom was becoming more numb with each stroke.
My mind was no longer able to consciously keep track of the strokes, yet somehow, automatically, I was able to thank her correctly for each stroke and ask her for the next one. I was not crying out, though I was in a flood of tears. I knew this punishment was for being vulgar with an uncouth facial expression, though it still seemed harsh. However, a part of me would never be vulgar again. The experience was so horrible I would never again risk it, which I supposed was the point. In the end, I took all six strokes with the proper etiquette. I was sobbing mightily when it was over, but I had held my position. I had cried but uttered no obscenities and generally acquitted myself with honour.
I lay there in position, unmoving, waiting for her command to get up, and was vaguely disturbed that she left me there while she walked behind her desk and into my field of view.
I wondered if I had forgotten to thank her in my daze so I said: “Thank you for my last stroke, Miss Haversham.”
“You are repeating yourself, Miss Saunders. However, please stay in position a moment.”
I saw her replace her slipper in her cabinet and then, with a detached sense of disbelief, I saw her hand move to the tall ceramic jar that stood to one side of her cabinet that held a small collection of canes. She seemed to make a careful selection and then pulled a larger, thicker and no doubt heavier rod out of the jar, bending it in her hands, presumably wondering if she could break it over my bottom. I should have been terrified but the truth was I was too busy sobbing to really comprehend what this cane could do to me and I really could not handle the thought that she might actually cane me.
“You may get up and adjust your clothing.”
I cannot describe the relief I suddenly felt as I struggled to bring myself upright. I pulled my knickers up, easing them over my now sore bottom and let my gymslip fall back into position and looked at her.
She still had the cane between both her hands as she said: “Look at me, Saunders. It gives me no pleasure to treat you this way. You are a bright, vivacious and very active girl who would have been an outstanding head girl if only you weren’t so exasperatingly silly at times. You would be a credit to the school if you weren’t such a juvenile imbecile. I have really tried my best to get you on a path where you can achieve the potential I know you have in you, but I am coming to the end of my rope.
“I want you to examine this cane and imagine what it can do to your bottom. Then think long and hard when you next decide to pull a juvenile stunt and ask yourself if it will be worth it.”
She handed it to me and I looked at it. I saw its varnished smooth length, the crook handle, how supple and heavy it was. The thought of what it could do to me really scared me. She held out her hand and I handed it back. With relief, I saw her replace the cane in its jar as I rubbed the tears from my cheeks. I was struck how beautiful she really looked when she was trying to be kind and I suddenly realised how lucky I might have been that at least the cane didn’t get a full outing on this occasion. She came back around to my side of the desk, smiling, and gave me a lovely long hug and I even felt her fingers running through my hair. It felt wonderful.
“Can you stand alright?” She asked suddenly with concern in her voice.
I tried to smile through my tears and said: “Yes, thank you, Miss Haversham. I will be fine.”
“Very good, I must say I am quite impressed by the way you took that punishment. Just stay there a moment while I get the punishment book for you to sign, unless you would rather sit?” She smiled a little wickedly.
I shook my head as I said: “No, I think I would rather stand, Miss Haversham.”
“Not surprising really,” she laughed.
She went to a filing cabinet, opened the top drawer and took out the large black Punishment Book. She took it to her desk, in front of me, opened it up at the last page, uncapped her fountain pen and was just about to start writing my name when she noted the previous entry in the book.
“I see I was right. I did spank you on your hands two weeks ago and it notes your age as fifteen. A spanking was correct for someone fifteen, but it turns out you are now suddenly eighteen! It seems as though you lied about your age, or at least did not correct me when I assumed you were fifteen. This means you were inadequately punished. No wonder you have shown up in my office so quickly for such a childish offence.
“Still,” she said as she looked up at me with a somewhat evil smile. “It is a simple error to correct. We can repeat the punishment next week at a level more suitable for an eighteen-year-old with possibly some additions to make up for the fact that you didn’t correct your age discrepancy. Your bottom is a little bit of a mess right now and you would not properly benefit from the correct punishment were I to deliver it today.
“So,” she smiled again. “You can make an appointment with my secretary for the same time next Friday and we can put matters to rights.” She scribbled for a few moments with her fountain pen, then suddenly turned the book around and offered me her pen. “Just sign for your punishment today and I shall see you promptly at four o’clock next Friday.”
I signed my name in her book in the appointed place and then she dismissed me, saying: “Collect your blazer and smarten yourself up, girl. I think you should go to the bathroom and wash your tear-stained face. Have a good rest of the evening and I shall see you again next week. Dismissed!”
Epilogue: I am sure many who read this story will realise it is a fiction. Girls are no longer caned at school anymore and even in the past, caning of a girl on her bare bottom by her headmistress was almost unheard of. However, I can attest that parts of this story are actually true. They happened to me, just a couple of weeks ago! So, I wonder dear reader, are you able to pick out the facts from the fiction?
Let me help you. First, the names of the characters and the name of the school have been changed to protect the guilty. Secondly, I am not eighteen. I am in my mid-thirties and, rather than being a pupil at a school, I am in fact the head science teacher. There is no corporal punishment at our school, nor has there been during the time that either the headmistress or myself have ever worked there. Next, the scene of the incident was not in the headmistress’s study of our school. Instead, it took place in our home where my partner, the real headmistress, maintains an office. This office, which is really a spare bedroom in our home, is pretty much as I have described and it does overlook the school playing fields, though it isn’t actually on school property.
She does have a similar, possibly more ornate, study in the school that even has the ‘traffic lights’ mentioned. The red slips are an utter fiction, of course, as was the triggering incident for the story. However, the spanking that took place and the uniform I wore is mostly as I described. It is part and parcel of the role play my lover and I engage in periodically. I just thought it would be fun to write it up to add to my ever-growing collection of self-authored spanking stories.
© Angela Fox 2017
Angela welcomes contact from her readers. Email at: email@example.com