A head girl questions her headmistress

By Old Tom (a new writer to us)

Right on time, a knock at the door; Miss Anderton, headmistress of The Rectory School for Girls, called for entry.

Melissa, Head Girl, neat as always in her attractive pinky red blazer, white blouse, pleated grey skirt, perfect black tights and plain black shoes. Other schools were allowing sixth formers to make their own choice of clothes and not wear uniform but not The Rectory; standards were to be maintained.

“Melissa, do come in. I just wanted to go over your speech for Prize Giving this week.”

It was of course perfection, as you would expect from a girl with an Oxford scholarship. Everything Melissa did was perfection, but she was no arrogant little madam, not so: Modest, kind and generous natured; a little serious maybe but an outstanding head girl.

Miss Anderton arranged for a tea tray to be brought in, wanted to talk, find out how Melissa viewed leaving, moving on, her time at The Rectory, wanted to draw her out, get beneath the shell. Melissa was enthusiastic, had benefitted so much from being at the school and learnt so much from Miss Anderton herself. Miss Anderton was pleased until the ‘but’ came in.

“But what, Melissa?”

“Well, Miss Anderton, do you realise how odd my experience is?”

“Odd? How?”

“The only trouble I have ever been in was when the whole class was in trouble; so I have been kept in with everyone else and I have had lines with everyone else but I have never been in trouble on my own.”

Miss Anderton laughed.

“But you see I talk a lot to the other girls and every single one has had the slipper or the cane at some point; even girls who are normally good. I’ve never even been sent to you for anything bad, never mind serious.”

A dry response: “If you had been sent to me, Melissa, it would have been serious.”

“Yes, but don’t you see?” The girl was serious, passionate. “I don’t even have any idea what happens when a girl is sent to you. I feel somehow incomplete when I talk to the others.”

Miss Anderton laughed, not too hard, teenagers are hypersensitive, but enough to show engagement and yet not be serious. “Well go out and come in again when I call and I will run through it. How about that?” She’d do a lot for Melissa; an Oxford scholarship would attract many prospective parents.

Grateful, Melissa got up and left. A polite knock and Miss Anderton, her voice now acting stern, called her in. Standing behind her desk she pointed in front of it and Melissa stood this time.

“Well, Melissa, why have you been sent to me?”

“Well, you know that special exam that a few of us took? I cheated.”

Miss Anderton was horrified out of her stern role. “Are you serious?”

“No, Miss Anderton, not really.” The headmistress visibly relaxed. “But I thought about it. I even worked out exactly how to do it. I could have made it work, was tempted, but it would have been wrong so I didn’t.”

“Assuming that you had, I would have had to punish you of course and report the matter so the result could be cancelled.”

“What would you do next?”

Miss Anderton walked over to a glass fronted cupboard, opened it; hidden by the frame were her canes; she picked one, the senior cane; nasty brute of a thing, an evil yellow colour. She turned and placed it on the desk. “Then to the punishment.” She looked up and saw Melissa looking hard at the cane before returning her gaze.

“But what then Miss Anderton?”

The headmistress went still, came around the desk and stood right in front of her head girl. Slowly she asked: “Just how far down this road are we going Melissa?”

Melissa looked her directly in the eye and replied softly: “All the way to the end, miss.”

Miss Anderton replied slowly and softly: “The end of that particular road would see you bent over my desk with six, at least six, nasty welts across your bare bottom and you sobbing loudly. I know, because any girl I have ever had to cane has ended like that.”

Melissa held her headmistress’s gaze. Her soft reply was clear. “That’s where I want to go, miss.”

Miss Anderton went very still; her eyes unfocussed, her mind whirled. The girl wanted to be caned, wanted to experience punishment, but why? A feeling of having been left out, possibly. An incomplete experience? Well only a girl as unusual as Melissa could think like that. Possibly guilt about her cheating plan, she wasn’t alone in feeling guilt for something she hadn’t actually done. Why not give her what she wanted? What harm was there? The girl’s achievement would attract many new pupils and the school’s reputation was enhanced. Surely she was owed something? The eyes snapped back into focus and she moved her decision made.

Around her side of the desk again; drawer open and punishment book out, carefully placed to one side of the desk. Looking at her head girl again; seeing excitement in her face. “That will soon disappear with the reality of punishment,” was her silent thought.

“I am seriously disappointed, Melissa, that a senior girl at this school should stoop so low as to plan to cheat. Oh,” she was now fully into her role and Melissa stood up straight with a now serious expression. “You may consider that only planning to cheat is less serious than the actual act. That is not so; Jesus does not distinguish between the actual act of adultery and the lusting in the heart and I believe the same may be said of other sins. So Melissa you must be punished; I shall give you nine strokes of the cane.”

“Well,” she thought. “I may just as well give her the full treatment as something lesser.”

Melissa asked steadily: “What must I do now, Miss Anderton?”

“Now remove your blazer and hang it on that chair; then remove your shoes.”

Neat movements put the blazer on the chair, the shoes tidily under; she stood almost to attention waiting.

“Remove your skirt.”

Now, for the first time, hesitation, a pause and a slowness of fingers as the clasp was undone, the zip pulled down. One skirt folded and placed neatly on the seat of the chair, she stood, nervous now.

“You are to pull your knickers and tights down to at least knee level, or if you prefer remove them altogether.”

At last reality strikes. Melissa’s face registers embarrassment, shyness, perhaps even fear. She swallows hard, a moment’s pause and then removes her knickers and tights completely. Their removal reveals a smooth skin, impossibly flat tummy, slim legs, a gentle neatly trimmed bush of hair, golden in the sunlight through the windows.

Inside the basement of the headmistress’s mind a door, heavily locked, burst open. Her long repressed ‘deep dark desire’ springs out making her desire this girl; wanting to hold, to touch, to have her do the same. There is a fight and she brings her enemy under control, thrusts it back down into its prison and bolts the door again. She has never acted on her desires, never been unprofessional, but it does not stop the unnecessary guilt. She understands all about guilt for something she has never done.

Instead of touching, she points with the cane to a space she has cleared on the desk. “Bend over the desk, Melissa, hold tightly to the other side and don’t stand again until I grant permission.”

Now at last Melissa is scared but bends neatly, places herself over the desk, grips tightly and hopes it will not be too painful. A vain hope if ever there was one. It will be intensely painful; Miss Anderton is notorious for her severe canings; squash, tennis, golf; successful at all and still playing, no chance of anything else but painful.

A light ranging tap, a frightening flurry of movement, and a loud scream from Melissa; the pain of her first stroke astonished her, frightened, overwhelmed. It burnt and hurt as nothing ever before. Another and all breath left her; she arched up over the desk, tears starting down her face. Controlled herself to a mere grunt at the third, but after that each stroke made her screech, to stamp her feet, to lift herself partly across the desk.

It was worse than anything she had expected; worse by far than she could have believed possible. She wanted to stand, protect her bottom from the punishing cane; only pride kept her in place. She could not count; her concentration was lost with the pain of the cane, she just prayed for it to end. Nine strokes was the count, each one applied severely.

Standing when it ended was painful; every movement seemed to pull her bottom and set each welt off again. Her fingers shakily sought out the results; vicious ridges that throbbed and burnt. The tears flowed freely down her face, her sniffing made her ashamed. Tissues handed to her helped and cleared her vision; she turned and looked at her bottom but couldn’t see much.

“You may use my cloakroom to dress again and wash your face. There is a long mirror where you will be able to inspect the consequences of a sound caning. I’ll hand your clothing in to you. There will be fresh tea awaiting you when you have recovered.”

In the privacy of the cloakroom Melissa cried some more, inspected her welts, was horrified, washed her face, put her skirt, shoes and blazer on but folded her tights and knickers and put them in her pocket, too scared to try putting those over her bottom. Calmed at last she looked at her blotchy face, her red rimmed eyes and then realised just what she had done. Just what Miss Anderton had done for her. A sense of satisfaction ran through her body. “Well,” she told the mirror. “You wanted to know what it was like to be caned, here in this office. Now you know.”

Over tea, with cakes, she asked about the punishment book.

“It is for me Melissa. The governors get a summary but only I see this and when I leave it will go with me. There will be no entry on your record but caning my Head girl! That is not something I want to forget. But what about you; will you tell your parents?”

“Maybe one day, but not yet. I will be able to tell my grandchildren though. Thank you, Miss Anderton. It was awful but honestly I do feel, no other word for it, complete.”

The End