Thoughts of a headmistress as she deals with an errant pupil

By Kane Strokes

I read through the report on my desk; Elizabeth Porter, caught smoking behind the bike sheds. From her records, I can see she has kept her nose relatively clean; the occasional classroom caning or slippering, but nothing that has brought her to my door before. Well, young Miss Porter, that is about to change.

My secretary sent a note to the girl’s class. She will see me at midday. Smoking is an automatic caning. In these cases, I always keep my desk clear. The cane stays in the cupboard until I’m ready to use it. I want any miscreant to listen to the lecture rather than have their eyes drawn to the cane.

In the meanwhile, I can continue with other work.

Midday, the expected knock at my door.

“Come in.”

A worried looking Elizabeth Porter enters.

“You wanted to see me, Miss?”

“Yes, stand there.”

I’m pointing to an area in front of my desk. She is trying to sound all innocent, but guilt is written across her face. Her eyes are searching for a look at the cane.

“You know why you are here? You were caught smoking. What have you to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry miss, I won’t do it again.”

“Are you sure you won’t?” I ask her. It will raise her hopes, thinking she will get away with it.

“Yes, miss, I promise; no more smoking.”

“Do you know why we ban smoking in school?”

I don’t give her time to answer. I continue the lecture about the evils of cigarettes and tobacco, the health implications. She looks attentive, even giving me the right answers. Does this little madam seriously think she is walking out of here without a sore bottom?

I bring the lecture to a close, and stand up.

“You know the school rules on smoking; any one caught smoking is caned. You will not be an exception.”

Oh dear, the look of horror on her face. I think she may even be on the brink of tears.

“Yes, miss.”

I have selected the appropriate cane from the cupboard, flexing it across my chest, and a couple of swishes through the air. She’s lost her chirpiness now.

She’s looking quite pale.

“Bend over the desk, reach and grasp the far side.”

She has done this in the classroom, so understands what she has to do.

“Well done, now I’m going to lift your skirt, and pull your knickers up tight.”

That’s good, plenty of bare flesh to work with. I’ll just get my aim, and tap the cane on her bottom. A sorrowful looking girl looks round at me. Sorry, that might work at home with mum, it doesn’t wash with me.

“Look down! Stay in this position until I tell you to stand.”

That’s better. I want to concentrate on her bottom.

Raising the cane, I bring it down hard and fast with a lovely snap of the wrist just before impact, the sound of which echoes around these bare walls. It is music to the ears of a disciplinarian such as myself, the guilty being punished, justice being done.

I hear a gasp. No doubt that took her by surprise. It was a scorcher. The deep red stripe becoming a welt is rising from nowhere. If she has any sense, she will understand that was the bench mark; they won’t get any easier than that one.

The next stroke is similar to the first. I hear another gasp. I know this is conceited of me, but I do admire my accuracy. that was within the cane’s width of the first one, now lets have some vocalisation.




Hmmm that stings there, doesn’t it? Right in the crease where her bottom becomes her thighs. The buckling knees and the drumming feet, vain attempts at reducing the pain.

The fourth stroke, this time lands exactly where I wanted. It splits the difference between the first two and the last one. More ready for that, a muffled yell this time, and I can hear her sniffling.

The fifth stroke traverses the full width of her bottom. There’s another muted yell, and she’s crying now; another stroke to be proud of. My accuracy is good, just a cane’s width higher. Now to make her yell. She might even jump up and grab her bottom. The last is always the hardest. If she doesn’t know that, she’s about to find out.




Gated her! That one crossed the four on her sit spots. She will remember this for days each time she sits down, and the crying, her hands have literally flown back to rub and protect her rump.

One final act to ensure her discomfort is complete, I’ll pull her knickers back into place, the elastic in the legs will cut across the welts.

“You may stand up.”

A tear stained face is looking at me. I hand her a tissue.

“Was that cigarette worth the pain in your bottom?”

“No, miss,” she gently sobs at me.

“If at any time you do think it was, then remember this, and remind yourself I can make your bottom hurt far more than it’s hurting now. Are we clear on this?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Good, you may go.”

I put the cane back in the cupboard. My memory goes back to my school days, and my headmistress doing the same for me. I can’t look at a cigarette now without my bottom throbbing. I hope I’ve done the same for Porter.

The End

© Kane Strokes 2017