January 7th, 2017
A 1950s housemistress recalls an episode in which a girl forced her to apply the ultimate deterrent.
by Sally Cavendish
Of all the girls in my house, Celia Charlton was the biggest enigma. She was bright, enthusiastic and, in general, very well behaved. But then she would suddenly go off the rails and be sent to me by one of the prefects.
‘Sent’ was something of a euphemism. Prefects had the power to send misbehaving junior girls to come and see me. A girl thus sent would knock on the door of my study, inform me simply that she had been sent and I would then give her six of the best without further ado. Sometimes I would question the girl as to why she had been sent and give her a ticking off before administering her six, but most of the time I did not bother. I was just the apex of a disciplinary system whose rudiments were understood by every girl in the house. You stepped out of line. You were sent. You got six. That was how this boarding school worked.
October 28th, 2016
Caught in the ‘act’, a girl pays the price.
by Sally Cavendish
It was half-past eleven and most of the residents of the small Sussex market town were already asleep. Only in the darkened gymnasium of St Anne’s Girls’ School, a small fee-paying establishment on the fringes of the town, was there any sign of physical activity. But it was certainly activity worthy of note.
On a gym-mat on the floor of the gymnasium, a young couple were making love. They were completely naked. Both their faces were in shadow, but a shaft of moonlight fell teasingly on the pale white buttocks of the woman as they bobbed rhythmically up and down in the act of love. She was riding her man with quiet purpose, not galloping headlong towards a climax, but taking her time. A Peeping Tom would have been spellbound by the whole spectacle, his eyes not moving from those smooth, voluptuous, slowly writhing buttocks.
October 4th, 2016
A woman is in the wrong job to be caught out. By a new writer to us.
By Sally Cavendish
When is a white lie not a white lie? It was not a question to which Celia Church had given much thought.
She knew that, when she told her boss she would be back late after lunch because she had a two-thirty dental appointment, she was being economical with the truth. There was no such appointment. She just wanted to have a leisurely pub lunch with an old school friend. But she did not think she was doing anything particularly heinous. She could always make up the time later.