A girl finds it pays not to be late

By Gillian Howard

It’s 09.10 am Friday 19 th July 1996. I am Juliet Smithson 5’8″ tall, long black hair, green eyes and slim athletic build. I’m captain of our school hockey and netball teams. I am standing, along with one 5th year girl and 3 boys from the lower 6th, with our hands on heads and noses to the wall as the rest of school file past us on the way to Friday Assembly.

It all started a week earlier. The Headmaster had proposed that the following Friday would be a charity ‘dress down’ day. He also added that just because all exams had finished too many pupils were arriving late and he was cracking down on it.

I had decided to wear a pale pink button-through dress with a pink satin bra and matching briefs, and 3″ high pink high heels. On the day, I had caught the last school bus which had been held up. As the bus arrived I was sat at the rear and was one of the last off. I knew my best friend Claire was the prefect on duty that day and, with the bus being late, I would be alright. I saw her at the school door and smiled as I approached, trying to explain the bus was late.

She said: “Yes, we know, but you are well behind the rest.”

“I can’t run in these heels.”

“Sorry, Juliet, but I have to send you to the Headmaster’s office as Miss Grey is at the top of the stairs.”

“But Claire, that means I will get the slipper and I have never been punished before.”

“Sorry, Juliet, I have no option.”

So here I was stood waiting to get the slipper, having never been in trouble before, and now I was going to get the slipper.

Miss Jackson, his secretary, came out and took our names and class before returning to her office. I then heard the scraping of chairs before the sound of Mr James’ shoes were heard as he returned from assembly and went straight into his office. Then all the school filed past on their way to registration. It was not long after that, Miss Jackson came out of her office carrying some files and a large leather book before knocking on the headmaster’s door and entering.

The door opened again and Mr Jackson summoned one of the boys in. We could hear his raised voice inside and then silence before: Swoosh. Thwack, and I realised it was the sound of the cane landing, not the slipper. After another 4 we heard a loud yelp, then a sixth and a much louder yelp.

Before the door opened and Mr Jackson called the next boy in, I sneaked a look and could see the boy fastening his belt before both hands cupped his bottom.

With the second boy inside, I heard the cane land again. This time there were no loud yelps heard. After counting 6 again, the door opened and Mr Jackson called the third boy in. After a couple of minutes the caning started and continued with no audible reaction. After the sixth landed there was the usual minute or so before the door opened.

As the boy left, Mr Jackson called the other girl in, leaving me on my own. Again Mr Jackson’s raised voice was heard, then a prolonged silence and I was beginning to think she was not being caned. After another minute, the unmistakable sound of the cane landing was heard. As the second landed, I heard a yelp. The third followed quickly and brought a scream of pain. The screams continued after each stroke and as the sixth landed the sound was slightly different, but the scream was much louder and lasted longer.

My legs felt like jelly and my stomach was churning as I waited for the door to open. It must have been 5 minutes before the door opened.

“Smithson, in here now!”

As I turned to walk to the door, I saw the other girl with her hands inside her green briefs holding her bottom.on as I entered, I saw a 4 foot cane as thick as my finger and brown with a crooked handle. Mr Jackson sat at his desk, opened the red leather book and started writing.

He said: “Juliet Smithson, upper sixth science, late for school after a warning issued to the entire school; 6 strokes of the senior school cane. Smithson, you have in my opinion deliberately flouted my warning so you will suffer the consequences and I will accept no excuses, so remove your dress and bend over the end of my desk. As you know, I cane over one layer only.”

I could feel myself blushing as I unbuttoned my dress and took it off.

As I stepped towards his desk, he said: “Tights as well.”

I slowly removed my tights and was stood there in only pink briefs and bra. As I lowered myself over his desk, I felt so embarrassed at 18 bending over to receive the cane for the first time. As I leaned over I could see a damp stain from the tears of the previous girl. I felt my knickers tighten and slide further up. As I gripped the edge of the desk and my breasts rested on the cool desk top, I heard the headmaster pick up the cane and swish it through the air a few times.

Then I felt the cane rest across the centre of my bum and tap a few times before moving. I heard the cane swish through the air and strike my bottom. As the pain started, I took an enormous intake of breath. The second was soon on its way and the pain increased.

I tried to concentrate on breathing deeply to try to block out the pain but the third and fourth landed in quick succession and in the same place, causing me to scream in agony. I was now crying freely as the fifth landed really low, causing another scream before the last landed even lower.

As I heard the cane crash down onto the desk, I slowly started to rise and was told to get dressed. I picked up my tights and slowly pulled them up. I then slipped my dress on and fastened the front buttons before I was asked to sign the punishment book.

I left the office and made my way to the wash room to clean my face. I was in pain but had stopped crying. I lifted my skirt and in the mirror saw that I had 6 raised welts all visible at the sides or below my knickers. I returned to class after collecting my bags and was asked why I was late, so I had to inform all the class that I had become one of the few girls in my class to have been caned. As I went to sit down, I saw a lot of smiling especially from the boys. I just blushed more as I felt so humiliated.

The End

© Gill Howard 2016