Punished for a crime she did not commit, a girl finally gets her revenge.

By Joanna Jones

Puzzled, I walked along the corridor with my schoolbag to the Headmaster’s office, having been called out and told to bring all my stuff by a prefect, who’d immediately returned to their special room. My confusion became tinged with worry as the secretary gave me a very odd look as she indicated I could drop my bag by her desk, and then knock on Mr Griffiths’ door.

That worry increased as she made to follow me. There was usually only one reason for the secretary to accompany a girl into the Head’s office, and that was if she was to witness a punishment.

On knocking, I immediately heard a brusque: “Come!”

I entered his study.

He was seemingly waiting for me just inside. The moment I was through his door he grabbed me painfully by the ear and whipped me round to face a thirty-odd year old woman I’d never seen before. She was wearing her work uniform, which I immediately recognised as being from a shop on the High Street.

As he did so our Head, never known for his patience, especially on disciplinary matters, asked the lady angrily: “Is this the girl?”

The woman replied: “Yes, she was the one who attempted to take the skirt.”

He pushed me towards his desk and shouted: “Right, Margaret Black, you are a disgrace; I will teach you what happens to thieves in my school! Be thankful Harpers are not calling the police and pressing charges. It seems that the previous two visits to my office taught you nothing. Well I assure you I intend that this will! Get over that desk right now.”

As he said this his eyes seemed to be popping from his face, and spit flew from his mouth onto me as his brief tirade continued. He was clearly utterly apoplectic, beyond reason, as before I had had a chance to react I found myself forced to bend over his already cleared desk.

I tried to stand to say I knew nothing of what he was talking about, but all that happened was another shouted tirade as he forced me back and this time got the secretary to grip my wrists to hold me in position.

Seconds later, my skirt was up upon my back and my brown school knickers, suspenders and stocking tops displayed.

“Please,” I gasped. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Lies again, Black. Miss Underwood caught you. This jotter from your bag and her testimony confirms it.”

At that moment he slammed a jotter on the desk between my outstretched arms and in front of my nose. Yes, it had my name, in my handwriting, on the front. What he had not noticed, of course, and to be fair it was far from obvious, was that it was from last year when I was in the lower sixth.

However, I had no opportunity to explain that as Mr Griffiths angry spluttering continued.

“I was going to give you six, but given that, you will get eight. Any more nonsense then I will expel you too! Is that clear?”

I was in shock at this turn of events.

“But…” I tried.

His loud voice was raised further as he barked: “Last warning, Miss Black. I said, is that clear?”

Despite not really understanding how this could possibly be happening to me, I knew that I did not want to be expelled. I capitulated.

“Yes, sir,” I moaned quietly.

During this last brief ‘conversation’ I could hear him cross over to his cupboard behind me near the door and return with, I knew, the cane he was going to use. As a result, the moment I had finally agreed there was a loud humm and then a crack as the cane whipped through the air and through the thin fabric of my brown school knickers to impale my poor bum.

Despite the Head’s assertion to the contrary, I had actually never been caned before. Thus I screamed in complete shock as the unbelievable pain set in.

Around fifteen seconds later, I screamed again as a second blow tried to cleave my bottom in two.

The third one was awful, very low and given seemingly even harder from the Head, who clearly was taking out his pent up fury on my rear. It was too much; I started to sob.

I cannot describe the rest, other than it was utter agony.

Thwack. Pause. Thwack. Pause.

And so it went on. Each of those strokes brought uncontrolled screams as I bawled continuously and sobbed my eyes out. Each swish also led to me struggling futilely against the secretary’s strong arms who’d now lent over me slightly to ensure I was unable to escape. As a result I could not move my upper body and so just had to endure the horrible, horrible pain that the angry Mr Griffiths doled out on my all too tender rear.

Maybe I might have taken it better if I had deserved it, but I was innocent!

After the eighth, he put his cane away as I remained held down, sobbing unrestrainedly into his desk. I never actually saw the stick he’d beaten me with.

He then told me, once I was let go, to apologise to the shop assistant, a Miss Underwood, then get out. I could take the rest of the day off to recover, but was to be back in school on the following day, of course.

Totally in shock and confusion, I did what I was told and stumbled miserably out of the office, hands immediately going to my hindquarters the moment the door closed behind me. The secretary, who’d escorted me out, had to call me back to pick up my bag which, with the distress I was in, was forgotten and still next to her desk. It was clear she was not especially sympathetic to my plight. She probably thought I was lucky that I was not being expelled.

Finally, out into the happily deserted corridor, I made a necessary detour to the girls’ toilets to try to calm down and wash my face, then I staggered out of the school to walk home.

It was a twenty minute walk home, though this time it took significantly longer as I took small slow steps as I made my way along the streets, desperately resisting the temptation to clutch my poor bottom. Equally slowly my shocked misery turned to fury as I considered properly what had happened. I had been caned severely, indeed very severely, for a crime I had not committed, and I knew exactly who was responsible for the theft, exactly who had set me up for the cane, exactly who must have pretended on those two previous occasions to be me. The answer was obvious; it was, and could only be, Miss Rachel Harriet Black, my identical twin sister.

We may have been alike in looks, and she chose to style her hair like mine, but in personality we were rather different. She was outgoing, brash, risk taking. I was relatively quiet and studious. We usually got on very well despite having different circles of friends, but this, this was a betrayal of our relationship. In my view, it was a betrayal of the worst sort.

It was mid-afternoon when I got back home. Mother worked, so the house was empty as I stripped and examined the damage in the mirror. There were dark blue and red weals all over my swollen bottom in mostly fairly neat parallel lines. They were extremely painful to touch.

Part of me wanted to cry, but as I lay for an hour bare bottomed in my bed after having done my best to put some cream on the damage, the dominant emotion was anger, a dark brooding anger that consumed me as I waited for my sister to return home.

I got dressed into my loose fitting tracksuit before she was due back and did not bother with any knickers underneath.

However, she was late. I ended up pacing around the house, in the words of that Scottish poet, Robert Burns, ‘Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.’

Eventually, around quarter past five, she came through the door.

I don’t know what I originally intended; perhaps to challenge her, ask her to explain, maybe. However, instead I lost control completely the moment I saw her.

“You lying bitch!” I shouted. “I got caned, you bitch!” With that I rushed at her and soon had her on the hall floor.

With the element of surprise and the anger coursing through me, I was soon on top slapping, scratching and goodness knows what else as my sister tried to defend herself against the onslaught.

It must have been a shocking sight for my mother to see; her two eighteen year old daughters in a serious cat fight as she opened the door, probably around ten minutes later, and it took her a short while before she got me off my sister.

Her reaction was predictably irate. “What are you thinking of! I have never seen anything like it. You are eighteen, not eight year olds. I want an explanation for this unseemly fracas right now!”

Rachel got in before me. “She just attacked me when I came in, for no apparent reason,” she declared angrily.

“No apparent reason? No apparent reason! You know perfectly well the reason.” I shouted. “She tried to steal a skirt from ‘Harpers’ on the High Street and gave my name when she was caught. Mr Griffiths caned me, you cow!”

My mother had to step between us as I lunged at my sister again.

Meanwhile, Rachel looked rather shocked but replied apparently angrily: “I don’t know what you are talking about. I haven’t stolen anything.”

That was another lie, as far as I was concerned, and I made another attempt to get at her. “You Liar!” I screamed, and I started to cry in frustration as my mother once again prevented my attack.

Mum by this time had had enough. “Both of you go to your rooms and calm down, and stay silently in there. Any more of this and I’ll spank you both myself!”

That was a shock. Neither she nor dad had spanked me for about four years, and about a couple of years in my more mischievous sister’s case. Even before that, it was hardly frequent.

I glared at my sister and, without a word, turned and stomped up the stairs to my room, still seething.

My mother ensured I was in my room before Rachel climbed the stairs to hers.

After about a quarter of an hour, I heard her go to Rachel’s room. I could hear her say she was going to talk to us both by ourselves and she was to start with me. Through the wall I heard her ask if Rachel had anything to say before she did. The answer was a very firm, ‘No!’

Mum took me downstairs for the chat. She was clearly still shocked at my behaviour. The first thing she said was: “Never in all my days have I seen such a display from you. Whatever possessed you to think that you should attack your sister like that?”

I think the question was meant to be rhetorical, and she was going to go on to say that no matter what I thought she’d done I should not have reacted so badly. However, I was still upset.

I stood from the sofa we were sitting on and replied passionately: “This is what possessed me!” Simultaneously I turned, pulled my track suit to my knees and bent forward slightly so she could see the extent of the damage Mr Griffiths had inflicted.”

Mum gasped and stared silently at the still bruising red, purple, black and blue lines that decorated my bottom. She no doubt noticed my tears were falling again.

“Pull your trousers up, Margaret.” She said rather softly.

As I (carefully) sat down again she asked me to recount what had happened.

I told her everything I knew; how I had arrived in the office, not been given a chance to defend myself, then summarily caned in front of the shop assistant with my skirt up, before being dismissed. I also said the Head had said this was my third caning, whereas in actuality I’d never been caned before. Mum then asked for the jotter, which the secretary had returned to me outside at the end as she reminded me about my bag. I said it was one from last year, one that happened to be top of the pile in my drawer where I kept all of my A-level stuff.

Finally, having talked myself out and given confirmation that I knew nothing about the skirt or even when the attempted theft happened, I was dismissed to my room again. Before leaving, my mother ensured she had a firm understanding of all my movements I could remember from the past 24 hours.

I did not hear what was said between mum and my sister, other than she maintained her innocence.

The next hour was spent with both of us in our rooms as my mother pondered, no doubt. I heard my father come in, normally a cue for dinner. However, we were not called for a long time.

Eventually we were both called down. Dad looked very serious and more intimidating than I ever had seen him. It was worse than when he was angry. He first said that we were to say nothing, just listen. In his current mood there was no way either of us were inclined to disobey.

We were then told how upset they were at the breach of trust between us. One of us had falsely accused the other of a serious crime; either I had attacked my sister and lied about the reason, accusing her unfairly of being a thief, or she had framed me for an offence I was innocent of and lied in denying that was the case. Whichever, they were going to get to the truth of the matter no matter what.

The plan was that my mother was going to go to the shop the following morning to find out what really happened and when, and that we would not be going to school, but with her. She also said that we may be identical but there was one key difference that she was sure the shopkeeper would remember – both of us had very different schoolbags which she must have seen given the incident with the jotter.

If that did not work then once she knew the time then she would then look at our ‘alibis’.

With that my father pointed to two trays with some buttered bread and a glass of water and told us to eat in it our rooms. Unless we had anything to say on the matter we could stay there till morning.

I was rather satisfied. Unless Rachel had played truant which, as the Head had not made an issue of it at the time, seemed unlikely, there were only two possibilities for the evening before and lunchtime just before the incident. In one I was with a friend at her house, and her mother had been in, and at lunch I sang in the school choir.

After eating my slices of bread, there was little to do, and after reading for a while (I could not face my homework) I went to bed. With the emotional turmoil I was pretty exhausted and feeling confident that my parents were not going to let it go, and being pretty sure that I would be found innocent eventually I finally fell asleep on my face, despite the deep ache in my rear.

Mum came into my room a bit before seven. I could not interpret the rather grim look on her face as I came to. Apparently my sister had, very late in the evening, finally confessed to them in their bedroom, both to the shop-lifting and having been caned twice before whilst pretending to be me when caught smoking in the grounds. Apparently there were three or four slipperings too that she’d used my name on to prevent herself getting a worse punishment. A least one, possibly two of the slipperings would have been canings for her, given her reputation. As for the skirt, apparently she claimed it had been a dare she’d talked herself into, one that she regretted even before agreeing to do it, and as a result took my jotter as an insurance policy.

I just stood there listening and let the hate, for at that moment there was no other emotion I felt, for my twin course through me. Overnight I had come to an understanding why, when all my close friends had been, I had not been made prefect. The extra slipperings just added to my certainty. Not being able to socialise with them, many had drifted away from me. Not only had I still a sore aching bum, but she was also responsible for so, so much more.

When my mother told me my sister was ashamed and sorry I literally laughed hysterically in her face as I told her how she’d affected me. I did not care one iota how sorry she was; I did not want to speak to her ever again.

My mother tried to calm me down, but I just got dressed, grabbed some toast and was out of the house ridiculously early. I walked round the park with the early morning light just forming on a mild late February day. It was, I think, quite beautiful and peaceful, though I do not recall appreciating it. I was in part thankful that my parents knew the truth, but of course that did nothing for the school situation. I wondered about confronting the Head, or telling another teacher. However, I was sure that that would lead to Rachel’s expulsion. Deserved in my view, but I knew my parents would probably never forgive me if I did.

My friends all knew I’d been caned but not why. I just refused to discuss it, told them I found it too upsetting to talk about, which was the truth even if they misinterpreted the reasons for my upset.

I, of course, completely ignored my sister all morning.

It was after lunch that I got an unpleasant surprise. Yet another prefect, a friend this time, came into the sixth form common room and said I was to go to the Head’s office. I felt sick and also very worried. There was no way my bottom could take another whacking, and I did not want my hands done either! Darkly I wondered whether if it came to another caning then maybe I should just let myself be expelled and leave my parents to sort out the mess!

The first indication that I might not be in trouble was seeing my twin facing the wall in the secretary’s office. I pointedly ignored the glance she gave me as I came in. The secretary again took my bag and put it by her desk, next to Rachel’s, before pointing me to the door. To my relief she did not make to follow me in.

I knocked.

The voice indicating I should enter was far quieter than the last time.

The Head was staring at his desk as I entered, but got up and fetched a chair for me. This was a surprise! Being treated nicely in the Head’s office was an unheard of experience for a pupil, with the possible exception of the Head Boy and Girl I suppose.

Then suddenly he was apologising for having caned me and not investigating properly. Apparently my sister had come after lunch and confessed, saying before that she had been very foolish and pleading that the Head did not expel her once he’d heard her story.

This was very weird. The Head was eating humble pie and I was wondering why he was so nervous. Then as he said something about the school reputation it became clear; he was worried I was going to complain to the police or papers, or both. Severely caning the knickers of an innocent eighteen year old woman, as I was, even if she was at school, was not something that would be easily dealt with, and the press would no doubt love it.

Not sure what to say, I remained silent.

He then asked me, almost fearfully, if I had anything I wanted to say or ask.

“So what happens now, sir?” Was all I could think of.

“Well, all the punishments that were in your name have been put into your sister’s who actually received them, apart from the one yesterday, which I will put a note to indicate that it was given in error.” He replied. “I then need to decide what to do with your sister. That is a very difficult one.”

Again all I could think of doing was silently gazing at him over his desk.

“Given all the circumstances, I think it would not be in the school’s interest to expel her.”

Code for he daren’t risk the bad publicity if my parents or I decided that there was little to be lost in going down that route. Looking back on it I think he was terrified he was going to be hauled up in court.

“I am proposing a stiff caning and a two week suspension.”

He looked at me as if asking whether I had a view.

Silence is sometimes a good reply, and I shrugged my shoulders. I did not want to see Rachel kicked out, though anything else seemed fair enough in my mood of that day.

“There is one other thing your sister mentioned, which was that you were disappointed when you were not appointed prefect, and now suspect that the punishments that you never actually took were the main reason.”

I held my breath as I nodded as impassively as I could manage.

“Well, having looked at your file and my recollection of the discussion, I think that you would have almost certainly been promoted, and given all the circumstances it would be fair to award you that belatedly, if you still feel able to support the school and myself.

It was almost a bribe, I thought, as after a brief pause I accepted. I wondered how the Head Girl would roster me in with duties done in pairs, but the Head had planned already. I was to stand in and assist when people were ill or away at open days for university applications or whatever.

The Head then asked me something that I remember to this day; given Rachel had been responsible, did I wish to witness her caning?

There was part of me that did, but despite her admission I still could not forgive her, and witnessing it seemed to mean that to me. Also to be honest my own horrific experience was also just too fresh. I declined.

The Head then asked me to wait outside and suggested my first job as a prefect could be to escort my sister home, as he was going to give her the worst caning he possibly could and she might need my help.

Rachel and the secretary went in and I sat gingerly on a chair and fingered my new badge as I waited. The muffled voice of the clearly angry Head permeated through the door, but only the odd word was discernible.

Eventually a Crack echoed through the door, causing me to flinch as I remembered the day before.

Then a second after a twenty second pause.

Each crack made me shudder. The cane is a harsh instrument when wielded correctly, as I now knew.

Rachel was pretty brave. It was not until the sixth that she finally screamed, and on the eighth that she started to cry and plead.

I doubt it made any difference as the Head gave her two more.

When she eventually came out she looked as distressed as I had no doubt been approximately 24 hours previously. I was not especially sympathetic and did not let her clean herself up before assisting her to stagger along the road to our house. More than once she asked me to forgive her.

On the third I stopped and eventually said bluntly: “I know I should, Rachel, but I can’t do it, at least not yet. It’s too soon, too raw. I am sorry.”

After that she kept quiet as we slowly made our way home. I was mildly satisfied that she was unable to manage to keep her hands to her side as she clutched her bottom. I should perhaps not have been so vindictive but…

To our surprise, mum was waiting for us. The school had phoned and informed her of Rachel’s suspension and caning.

She glowered at my sister. “Well, I suppose you at least did the right thing, and as a result you were somehow not expelled,” she said. “But don’t think for a moment that it will affect what your father and I feel. Turn around!”

Mum rather forced her to do so and rather roughly held her skirt up with one hand and pulled her knickers down with the other. Rachel gave a mild wail as she examined the rather nasty stripes on her bum before giving two full blooded slaps with her hand and sending her to her room.

After a rather perfunctory congratulation onto new badge I soon realised mum was in no real mood to talk and I made my excuses to catch up with my homework and went to my room.

I could hear Rachel crying in hers, but really I did not feel that sympathetic.

Rachel was not asked down for dinner, which was a quiet affair. I had to help mum clear up.

When we returned to the living room Rachel was standing facing the wall. She had her nightie on, but she was holding it bunched around her waist. The ten livid stripes of her caning were all too clear. She was allowed to drop the nightdress down before Dad called her over to face them, sitting together on the sofa.

My parents did not allow me to leave as they verbally laid in to her. The shame she had brought on herself and the family, the duping of her sister. It went on and on. Rachel had tears running down her cheeks long before the end.

Finally Dad told her to bend over and grab the edges of the coffee table.

My twin, I think, was so intimidated that she did what she was told without a plea, looking, as she had done all along, petrified at the thick strap in his hand. All spankings in our house to that point had been a parental hand over a parental knee or a few blows with an old clothes brush over the same knee if they were very annoyed. This promised to be very different.

Mum tugged her nightdress up again, high into her back, revealing more white skin that contrasted with the dark red and blue stripes that were, from my vantage point, nearly directly in front of me.

What ensued was not pleasant as Dad raised the belt and strapped it down over the already well punished bottom. No doubt extremely tender, Rachel screamed and burst into tears. However, mum and dad were furious and the tears elicited no mercy. Both took a turn at giving her a dozen strokes, and promised her more if she did not behave impeccably during her suspension and beyond.

Finally Mum brought the belt to me and suggested I too give her a dozen. A sobbing Rachel looked horrified at the prospect. They put me under quite a bit of pressure as I think they thought it was a way to get the tension between us over. However, I could not bring myself to do it and said we would have to sort ourselves out in our own time.

For the next two weeks I went to school and Rachel stayed at home. My grandmother was deployed to ensure she worked on both her studies and the chores that she was given. Despite never having even come close to punishing us as children, I came home on the first afternoon to find Rachel sobbing softly in a corner of the dining room. Her jeans and pink knickers were around her ankles and the long wooden spoon that had clearly been liberally applied to her rear was on the dining table behind. I assume this was the infamous spoon that my mother had referred to getting as a child, and telling grandma that she could apply to us if we stepped out of line when with her. That had never of course happened, till now.

I think Grandma was actually much more upset at what had happened than my parents. Rachel seemed to get a thorough spanking from her almost every day during those two weeks, as well as the belt on a further occasion from my parents.

Slowly I began to feel sorry for her, though outwardly she found me polite, but aloof. The camaraderie that had been a feature of our relationship was still gone.

Finally Rachel returned to school and immediately got a second caning, of ‘only’ six on her knickers. The first, she was told, was for stealing. This second was apparently for falsely giving my name on so many occasions.

This time she got it right at the end of the day. We walked home separately, but once in the house we found ourselves alone for the first time since my attack on her on that fateful day over two weeks ago.

I was in my room starting on my homework when there was a knock at the door.

“Marge, can we talk?” She asked pensively.

I shrugged and indicated she could come in. Unsurprisingly, having been whacked just over an hour ago, she stood.

“You’re still mad at me aren’t you?” She asked rhetorically.

I shrugged again.

“I know I don’t deserve it, but I miss having a twin sister I can be friends with.”

I turned and looked at her and replied, “I miss that too, but it’s, it’s not so easy. I knew you fooled about a bit too much compared to me, but I always trusted you, and well…” My voice tailed off.

“I tried to make it up. Mum and Dad wanted to hush it up as far as the school went, though they were going to give me utter hell at home. They were scared I would be expelled. But having seen how upset you were I knew I had really done it, really gone too far. I knew if I didn’t try to admit it you would probably never forgive me.” She paused. “Saying your name, each time it was so easy, and I thought victimless, at least apart from the last one. I never thought about the consequences. I feel such a shit.”

“I know, but, but well, you don’t know how much it hurt. Not so much the cane, though that was bad enough, but what really hurt was the realisation of what my sister, my best friend had done. I never imagined you could do that to me.” The emotion was making my eyes well up. The dam was breaking.

Rachel replied, “I know now, I hate myself. I wish I could undo the misery I made for you, but it’s too late.”

Tears were streaming down her face as she looked at me.

It is very hard to love and hate someone at the same time, especially someone as close as a twin sister. My tears of frustration at my feelings started to fall.

Rachel said miserably: “I promise I will never ever let you down like that again. Please give me another chance.”

Eventually I nodded and said: “I will, it may take time to do it fully but I will, sis.”

Finally after over two weeks of cold we hugged.

However, as we broke apart Rachel looked at me. “Everyone else has punished me, except you who I hurt most.”

I was on my guard as I was sure I knew what she was going to say.

And she did. “Would you give me what I deserve? No, not for you, or at least not just for you, but for me, I can’t really forgive myself what I did until then, I think.”

It took a bit of persuasion, but I said I would think on it.

Eventually on Friday a week later mum was meeting dad in town to go to some theatre show together directly after work. With my sister asking again and the opportunity available I capitulated and agreed to her request. After all, I had much of an afternoon and evening to get my anger worked out of me, as well as give her what she wanted. And our parents would never need to find out.

The moment we were home from school I told her to stand in the corner of the living room as I checked windows were properly closed and pulled the curtains to.

I then fetched the old flat-backed clothes brush that hung in the cloakroom for brushing down coats. Both of us had occasionally felt it as children, though it was a couple of sharp spanks rather than what I had planned here.

Returning to the living room, I told her to face me. “Right, Rachel, remind me exactly what the deal is.” I asked.

She looked nervously at the brush on the coffee table before answering. “I will take whatever you think is necessary so that you feel I’ve been punished enough, and so that I can feel I’ve paid for the way I let you down.”

“Very well, but Rachel remember I will never ever do this again. If you do it to me again then the closeness we have as twin sisters will be gone, and I mean gone forever!”

She nodded, now very nervously. She knew I was going to spank her well beyond the point where she’d be crying, but I think that was necessary for her to feel she’d forgiven herself, and truth be told for me to feel she’d suffered enough.

“Strip.”

She looked at me wide-eyed and, seeing I was not joking, made to go to her room to comply.

“No. Strip here, completely.” I ordered. “Put your clothes on that chair, I want to see your bra and knickers on the top of the pile.” I was leaving no room for misinterpretation about what ‘completely’ meant.

After another pause with a rather horrified shocked look, she finally slipped off her blazer and put it on the chair. Her pullover and school tie followed fairly easily. She looked at me again, waiting on the sofa, before her hands went to the blouse buttons and undid them one by one, revealing a lace trimmed vest. Each item seemed to take a little longer than the one before, a little more effort to force herself to do it; thus the skirt was a slow process as her hands went behind her to unfasten the clasp and then unzip it. Finally her stockings were on display, along with the white suspender belt and her brown school knickers.

She chose to remove her vest next, slipping it up over her head, leaving her in a plain white bra with lace trim, her stockings, and of course the rather unflattering brown underwear of the school.

Unclipping her stockings, she slid them down her legs and off one by one. She was now clearly getting very nervous indeed as she stood in her bra and knickers. Finally her hands went behind her and she unclipped it, and her unfortunately (given mine were the same) not very large breasts were released.

Finally her hands went to brown fabric and, taking a gulp of air to steady herself, they were down and off.

Now naked she cupped her hands in front of her and stood embarrassed in front of me.

Standing, I ordered: “Hands on your head!”

She did so watching me fearfully as I walked around her in the room. Since my brother went up to University, about eighteen months ago, we had separate rooms, with him having to use the guest room when back. As a result I had not seen my sister like this for quite a while. It was like a real-life reflection in many ways, given our identical nature. However I noted one distinct difference; while the hair between my legs was basically as it grew, Rachel’s was shorter and neatly trimmed. I wondered if she’d done it for her boyfriend or because she liked it herself. She, I knew, had long since lost her virginity, well nearly a year ago, whereas I was still ‘keeping myself’ till I was sure.

“Feeling embarrassed, sister?”

A very quiet ‘Yes, Marge’ was my reply.

“I hope so.” I said quite angrily. “Can you imagine how embarrassed I was to be dragged over that desk in front of that shop assistant? How embarrassing it was to have the Head yank up my skirt and put my knickers on display to him? Think on that as you stand there!”

I made to leave and get a cup of tea. “And don’t think of moving!” I said as an afterthought.

As I sipped my tea and read a book she sniffed as I glanced at her body with its pert breasts and neat triangle of mousy brown hair.

Abstractly I wondered if I should tend my bush down below a little and decided no, that could wait for a while longer. I had no intention of letting Mark, my current boyfriend, go that far anytime soon, if indeed ever. He was fun to be with, and I enjoyed a good snog as much as the next girl, but I was not that serious about him.

Having finished a chapter of the book I glanced at the mantelpiece. She had been standing naked there for over twenty minutes, and the room was not all that well heated.

Time to warm my sister up.

I went to the kitchen and brought a plain wooden chair through. After pushing the coffee table out the way I sat down on it.

“Rachel, over here now.”

She did not miss the patting of my lap as she came across, still with her hands on her head. Moments later she had obediently placed herself over my lap.

Letting my right hand rub lightly on the upturned bottom, where the six stripes from nearly two weeks ago were now just faintly visible, I said: “I am leaving the brush for later, but let’s put some colour in these cheeks!”

With that my hand gave her right buttock a firm slap, which made it sting slightly. A second to her left followed quickly.

Soon I was slapping regularly and progressively harder as my hand numbed and inured itself against the initial mild pain of slapping the target so hard.

In doing so, I again started a lecture on how embarrassed I’d been, how upset, how humiliated. I let my emotions go a bit and a few tears fell from my eyes.

However, that was as nothing compared to Rachel who started to yelp, then squirm, then wail, before breaking down completely and saying how sorry she was.

By the time I had finished she was crying profusely. Eventually she was let up and sent to the corner to stand, face to the wall, so I could admire the pillar box red colour her buttocks now exhibited.

Time for another chapter of my book.

Once she calmed down I went upstairs and fetched the eighteen inch ruler dad had in his tool cupboard.

I came down quietly to see her resolutely standing with hands on head. A bit of me wanted to catch her rubbing her bottom, but there was a whole evening still ahead for justice to be fully done.

I fetched an apron from the kitchen and gave it to her.

“Put that on, and make the tea that mum’s half prepared for us.” I demanded. “And it better be perfect, or I will be giving you this, on your thighs!”

Her eyes widened a bit at that, but she did not demur. Instead, she said: “Where do you want it, Margaret?”

“We will eat together on the kitchen table, now get on with it.”

I decided to read the next part of my book at the kitchen table, allowing me to keep a check on her progress. Most of the time she was working on the side, allowing a good view of her bottom with only the tied strings of the apron in front of it. The redness was now fading slightly but there was something very satisfying in seeing her so submissively working.

Suddenly there was a hissing sound. The water in the pan for the carrots had boiled over the lid.

As soon as she had turned it down I grabbed the ruler.

“Hands on your head and don’t move!” I ordered.

“Please Margaret, it was a small slip up.” She begged as she complied.

Six yelps later she had three broad red stripes adorning the backs of her thighs, with the promise of extra if she dared to try rubbing them.

Finally dinner was ready. I doubt having her bare bottom on the cold hard wooden chair was much fun for her as we ate. To be fair, though, she had made a pretty good job of the cooking.

I left her to tidy up the kitchen, telling her to have it spotless or else, and went and read my book in the lounge again.

Once she’d finished I ‘inspected’ the kitchen. It was pretty tidy, apart from the water around the sink which she’d omitted to wipe up at all, especially directly behind it.

She rather begged as I told her to take the apron off and sit down on her chair in the middle of the kitchen while I fetched the ruler again.

She was sitting nervously as I came back in, no doubt wondering what I had in store for her.

“Legs apart! Further!” I demanded. “Right, now grip your hands on the back of the seat, and don’t move!”

“Please, Marge,” she begged as I tapped the ruler on her inner thigh.

I just looked cold and repeated my order not to move, unless she would like me to start again, then brought the ruler down hard on the inside of her left thigh, followed quickly by her right. This time I did not stop at six, but gave her a dozen hard whacks on each leg leaving her squirming and bawling as she desperately tried to remain in position.

Finally she was let up and told to make me a coffee, then stand again in the lounge facing the coffee table, where the brush was still patiently waiting to form the last and we both knew worst part of her punishment. I noticed this time she could not keep her legs together and stood with them slightly apart, no doubt as a result of the red ruler marks on the inside of each leg.

I let her stand for an hour till about eight o’clock as I sipped my coffee and read again. This time I tidied my cup away myself.

“Right Rachel, are you ready for your spanking?” I asked my naked mirror image.

“Please can, can I go to the bathroom first?” She asked rather desperately.

“Very well. Here, put the ruler back in Dad’s tool cupboard as you do so. You have five minutes, or you’ll be fetching the ruler back down again for your hands!”

She rushed out of the room and was back only three minutes later.

“This time you will bend over the chair and hold on till I finish with you. Move and I will give you extra.” I ordered, pointing to the kitchen chair that I had left from before dinner.

She did as she was told, and was soon giving me a full view of all she had, given that she still clearly found the insides of her legs rather sore.

Rubbing the brush gently on her bottom I started by saying: “When I put you over my knee I told you to think on how embarrassed you’d made me. This time I want you to think how painful that caning I got was. I got a horribly hard first caning, because you did something awful and because you’d already pretended to be me when caned before. Maybe you would have coped better, being used to the pain of that stick, but I was not, and I tell you I bawled my eyes out as Mr Griffiths thrashed me. I am going to do my best to ensure you understand how much agony you put me through!”

She shuddered as I drew the clothes brush back slowly and clenching my teeth put everything I had into that first whack.

The loud splat was followed by a gasp from my dear sister.

Taking my time, leaving at least a count of ten between each blow, the brush regularly splatted into her bare buttocks, slowly turning the now slightly pink cheeks from the hand spanking two to three hours previous to bright red once again, and then darker colours. After about seven or eight full blooded whacks she began to give voice to her pain and as I went over the dozen she began to wail and beg, though to her credit her hands stayed on the chair seat, as her bottom began to wave about as it wriggled to cope with the sting. It was another two dozen whacks, by which point she was finally sobbing freely, before I paused for a minute, then gave her a final six beauties before telling her she could get up, that it was over.

As soon as she stood she did not immediately go for her bottom as I expected, but instead collapsed into my shoulder and half begged me to confirm she was forgiven and half thanked me for doing it.

It was well at least half an hour before either of us felt like parting.

Drained, she then went upstairs, taking her clothes with her. I heard the shower running before she went to bed, no doubt exhausted. I decided to stay up and watch the late film on the TV. Emotionally, I felt relieved and, more importantly, purged of the anger and hate that had built up in me.

My parents came home just after eleven, and while dad went straight upstairs to use the bathroom my mother came in to the living room.

As I looked up from the film she asked: “Where’s Rachel?”

“She went to bed early, she was feeling tired.” I replied non-committally, half watching the climatic scenes of the film, which had only about ten more minutes to go.

However, my mother seemed to want to talk. “So you were both okay with each other tonight then?”

I rolled my eyes inwardly as I replied: “Yes, mum.”

“Have you fully forgiven her yet, and are things going to go back to me having two daughters who can be proper friends again?”

This time I looked at her, as clearly she wanted some reassurance on this. No doubt being the parent of two children who are treating each other coolly and with an unspoken tension between them is hard too.”

“Yes Mum,” I replied softly. “We are getting there, I am sure we will be back to normal soon.”

She smiled and lightly tousled my hair and the made to leave the room as I returned my attention to the movie.

As she got to the door she turned and said: “Oh Margaret, maybe you might want to put the clothes brush away before your father comes back down.”

Suddenly her enigmatic smile had my full attention as I saw the brush lying on the coffee table where I’d left it. The kitchen chair was still incongruously in the middle of the room too. Clearly she had guessed everything!

The End

© Joanna Jones 2013