A girl goes to the aid of her boyfriend and lands them both in trouble.
By Joanna Jones
“Hey Sally! Have you heard? Liam got whacked this morning!”
“What!?” I stopped dead in my tracks and stared at my friend, Frances, who had just caught up with me, having been in a different class just before the lunch break.
“Apparently he cycles to school and a car got a bit too close to him and nearly knocked him off. He let fly at the driver with a load of verbal abuse. Unfortunately Mr Arthurs was in the car behind.”
Fran paused, giving me a chance to guess the rest. Our Deputy Head was a stern man.
“He had Liam into his office at the beginning of fourth period; he came back later looking very dishevelled.”
Poor Liam. Thanking Fran I turned and headed back towards the class he and Fran would have been in, to find my boyfriend. He was walking rather slowly along the corridor with a few mates. As I arrived they tactfully disappeared.
Liam clearly was in some pain, having been given four hard cuts. Apparently while Mr Arthurs agreed the driver of he car in front was a little careless, he had been furious with his response, especially given he was wearing uniform, thus representing the school. Mr Arthurs had been sufficiently angry that he’d spent much of the morning tracking him down, having not immediately recognised him.
The result for Liam had been distinctly dreadful. While he’d been caned before, this one had been ‘bad’ as he put it.
I have to say I was feeling quite shocked and sorry for him. From his description the driver had nearly seriously injured him. Who knows how I would have reacted to that or, for that matter, Mr Arthurs had he been on a bike, I thought darkly.
“I don’t know if it would help, but I have some hand cream we could put on your bottom,” I said solicitously.
“That would be really good, but it can’t think of anywhere safe for that.” He replied. “Perhaps I should take it to the boys’ loos.”
Liam and I had been going out for quite a while, indeed over a year, and while had not got as far as actually sleeping together, we had had some pretty heavy petting that had included removing each other’s clothes, and helping each other to ‘climax’ so to speak.
“They’ll be nobody in the changing rooms at lunch.” I suggested.
Liam looked unsure, but then finally agreed.
We decided to go for the girls’ ones, and after I made a quick check to ensure they were deserted we slipped in.
As I got the cream out he slipped down his trousers and plain white cotton y-fronts. My reaction, when I saw the marks, was shock. There were four bright red pairs of lines on his backside, each clearly raised compared to the flesh on either side. I had seen a few fading marks before. Girls could get caned, but rarely, and it was on the hands. However, some girls had the misfortune of strict parents so the odd bruise and even cane mark visible on someone’s bum when we were changing was certainly not unheard of. However, none of those marks were like those my boyfriend now was sporting.
“They’re awful.” I said as I started to gently rub the cream into his bottom. It was quite erotic to be rubbing the cream into him, especially given that extra frisson one has when there is some small but perceptible risk attached.
As I did so, Liam made some small groans and, with his pants down, I could see that I was not the only one finding it a bit ‘stimulating’. My attentions were giving him some effect elsewhere.
As I finished I gave that stiffness a quick rub, and said mischievously: “My parents are out tonight, so maybe I’ll be able to do something about that,” then leant into his ear and said more quietly: “Perhaps, a blow job?”
As Liam gave a moan of anticipation there was a sudden noise.
“What is going on here!?”
A voice had screeched behind us, a voice I knew too well. The voice of the more strict of our two games mistresses, Mrs Baker, though in our school she was better known by her nickname of ‘Plimsol Pat’.
There were some noises behind her and she rather quickly closed the door on some girls, clearly first and second years.
“I am sorry, miss, Liam got caned and I was putting some cream on his wounds,” I replied, rather lamely.
Liam meanwhile was making himself respectable as quickly as he could, under the glare of a clearly absolutely astonished and increasingly apoplectic teacher.
“And that was all was it, Miss Ritchie? I don’t believe you for a moment. You two will go outside and stand facing the wall next to my office while I let the girls in the under 13 cross-country team get changed.”
There were a lot of giggles as, beet-faced, we passed the group of about a dozen approximately twelve year olds and stood facing the wall.
Plimsol Pat addressed her younger charges. “You all know the rules about which areas are out of bounds, and I assure you those apply to those in the upper sixth as much as to any one else! And as for boys being in the female changing rooms, I assure you these two are in very deep, very hot water. Now, go and get changed and sit quietly while I take these two to see Mr Arthurs.
As I faced the wall I gulped. While I had been expecting a first ever trip to the Deputy Head, it was still sickening to hear. For Liam of course it was worse; two trips in one day was not going to be good.
A few minutes later we were facing another wall, outside the deputy’s office, as Mrs Baker was inside outlining what she had seen.
She curled her lip in a grim contempt at me, or so I thought, as she left to return to her lunchtime training session. I had not heard about it, but as it was clearly for the younger girls that was not surprising. I cursed our bad luck.
It was about a minute later that Mr Arthurs appeared at his door to invite us in. In to stand, of course, nervously facing him seated at his desk.
His face was exceptionally serious, almost sad. I think I would have preferred it if it was looking furious.
Eventually after an absolute age, during which I have never felt so terrified, in fear of what was going to happen, he spoke.
“Liam Arnold, this is an unpleasant surprise, given you were in here only an hour or so ago. And Sally Ritchie, I have to say I am very surprised and disappointed to see you here.”
There was another long, awful pause. “So Arnold do you know the normal penalty for a boy found in the girl’s changing room is?”
Liam shuffled a bit and whispered: “No, sir.”
“It is expulsion.”
I panicked. This was all my fault. I could not see my boyfriend expelled.
“Please, sir! It was my idea, I suggested it. Please don’t expel him!” I begged.
Mr Arthurs looked at me slowly. “And do you know the normal penalty for taking a boy there Miss Ritchie?”
The blood seemed to fall away from me. I felt faint. I shook my head, willing it not to be.
“Yes, Sally Ritchie, the expected sanction is also expulsion.”
The tears started then, I remember. Silently they fell down my cheeks as we waited for him to speak again. Hoping against hope he would not apply that, the ultimate sanction, to us.
Now, would either of you like to explain what you were doing in there? You, Mr Arnold, with your trousers at half mast?”
“Well, Sally offered to put some of her cream on to help soothe the marks of my caning sir.”
“And nothing else?”
“No, sir!” My boyfriend replied rather desperately.
Mr Arthurs looked quietly at us, then turned to me. “So, Sally, when Mrs Baker found you, where was your right hand?”
I could not bring myself to answer that.
Mr Arthurs did not take his eyes off me as he eventually continued: “And, Sally, are you wishing to deny that Mrs Baker heard you utter the words ‘blow job’ as she entered the room?”
I could not easily answer that either. Tears still falling, I just looked at the desk. I could not see how now I was not going to be expelled.
Liam finally spoke. “Please, we were never going to do anything like that in there. Please!” He begged.
Mr Arthurs again let us stew for what seemed like an age, then said: “You have the fact that fortunately Mrs Baker found you before those younger girls saw anything, and the fact that you, Sally Ritchie, were at least fully dressed to thank for the fact that I am not going to expel you today. You, I know, are both normally well behaved young persons, but you have seriously let yourselves down. Be assured if I ever find you exploring your relationship any more overtly than holding hands in this school then you will be expelled. Am I clear?”
As he issued that last question he raised his voice slightly for the first time.
We both muttered acknowledgements as we waited. We knew that while we were still at least at the school, there was going to be some sanction, and it was not going to be one that would be pleasant.
“So, to show the school’s displeasure at your behaviour, I am going to give you each a choice; suspension for one week or the cane. Arnold, in your case it will be six of the best, trousers and pants down. Anyone getting the cane twice in a day fully deserves the worst I can dole out!”
Mr Arthurs turned to face me. I assumed I was up for a maximum four on the hands, which I was consciously wringing in front of me. However, the Deputy Head had thought of something worse.
“As for you, Miss Ritchie, I am not offering you the cane on your hands. Since you took such an interest in the marks on your boyfriend’s bottom, you can find out what it is like to have some for yourself. I am going to return you to Mrs Baker to give you four of her best, in whatever state of attire she deems appropriate. So, which is it to be?”
I looked at Liam horrified, and got a similar look back. Six was not at all common in our school, and he had already just had a caning too. As for me, I could not believe it. To my knowledge, no girl had been caned on her bum before, ever. And if I read him right, he was giving Mrs Baker the right, if she wanted, to take my knickers down too! Everything I knew about our games mistress suggested that would be inevitable. It was not for nothing that she had acquired the nickname ‘Plimsol Pat’, after all.
However, the option of being suspended; well that was worse. It was easy to imagine my parents’ respective reactions. Mum would be hysterical, going on and on about it for probably days. In contrast, Dad would be coldly furious and ignore my presence as far as he could, probably for as long as my mother remained in her hysterical state. They no longer spanked me, but there were other punishments that they could, and I knew would, use to make my life miserable for quite some time.
No, I reflected as I wiped away some tears with my blazer sleeve, there was no real choice.
It was clearly a conclusion Liam had come to too as I heard him say quietly: “I would prefer to take the cane, sir.”
Mr Arthurs looked at me.
“I,” I started, then stopped and took a very deep breath before sniffing out: “I will take the cane too, please, sir.”
The irony in asking for such an awful punishment was not lost on me, even then.
Mr Arthurs looked at us briefly, perhaps it was a chance to reconsider, to bottle out, I don’t know. “Very well, Sally go and outside and wait, you can stand or sit, as you prefer.”
I did as I was told. His door led to a largish alcove area, with glass panels to the corridor. There were a few chairs that could be used for anyone waiting to see him or one of the two Assistant Heads. Their shared secretary looked at me with a sympathetic grimace like smile, then indicated her tissue box on the corner of her desk.
I managed to give a sort of grimace of my own, of thanks, as I took a couple and dabbed my face. My tears had now stopped. Perhaps things were now too awful to cry. Whatever the case, I knew that those ducts would be almost certainly reopening soon enough.
I could not bring myself to sit down, though. In part I think sitting would have reminded me too vividly that I might not be able to do so comfortably very soon, but mostly it was the adrenalin coursing through me. I needed to stand, pace nervously around as I waited, knowing that inside that room my poor boyfriend, Liam, would no doubt be getting ready and then…
A muffled crack emanated through the door, bringing my reverie to a close. ‘Then’ had become ‘now’.
Liam held it together for three cracks before, on his eighth of the day, he let out a wail. A wail that was repeated two more times.
During that punishment, I felt terrible. His second caning was my fault, and soon I too was scheduled to suffer. I cannot really recall which thought was worse.
Soon after, Mr Arthurs came out of his office holding a nasty looking three foot crook handled cane. As he did so, I saw Liam who was facing the far wall in his office. He had his hands on his head, and I could hear small moans as he shifted from foot to foot. The grey fabric of his trousers covered only his ankles, and the white of his underpants capped them. He had not been allowed to pull his trousers or pants up, meaning my eyes were drawn upwards to the wall of dark red that was now his bottom.
“Miss Dawson, please ensure Mr Arnold does not move while I am out.” I will leave the door open so you can keep an eye on him.”
I hoped the office remained deserted of pupils so Liam’s potentially public humiliation did not get out. However, I really should have been more worried about myself.
Mr Arthurs had turned to me. “Right, Sally Ritchie, time to go! Follow me.”
I saw quite a few sixth form colleagues, as well as some younger pupils, looking at me askance as I scurried miserably after the briskly walking Mr Arthurs, carrying, of course, that long cane. I would never be able to pretend nothing had happened.
All too soon, we were back in the PE block. With the girls out on their training run, no doubt with Mrs Baker watching, it was deserted.
Mr Arthurs selected the corner between the doors to the games mistresses’ office and one to the gymnasium. “Face that corner, girl, with your hands behind your back.”
Now, feeling tears starting to well again, I did as I was told. I felt a sick horror as the cane was placed in my hands and I was told to keep it visible there, not to dare move.
Sniffing back my emotions before they showed, I did as I was told. My fingers involuntarily rolled the cane between them, my mind imagining the rod swishing through the air, swishing to meet a target that was a soft sensitive part of my body.
Mr Arthurs pulled an envelope out and stuck it in my blazer pocket. “Give that to Mrs Baker, when she returns. I am going out to the fields to let her know to expect you to be waiting here before I return to my office. And, Miss Ritchie, remember what I said about getting into trouble ever again.”
I swallowed and managed to respond: “Yes sir, thank you sir.”
The moment I uttered the words ‘thank you’ I wondered why they had sort of spilled out. I suppose I was thanking him for not suspending or expelling me.
Moments later I was left to my own thoughts.
I do not know how long I waited there, probably fifteen minutes, as the girls completed their training run.
My stomach flipped as I heard the racket as they returned into the changing rooms. As they had come in through the outside door of the changing room they were unaware of my presence. However, Mrs Baker came straight through.
Though I heard the door, my first awareness was her closeness as the letter was removed from my blazer pocket. All she said as she did so was: “Turn round and face me.”
I did as I was told; I watched her peruse the letter from the Deputy Head.
A few moments later she looked down at me coolly. She was a tall athletic woman, compared to my slight five foot three inch frame. “Do you know what this says, Sally Ritchie?”
“That Mr Arnold wants you to cane my bottom, miss?” I replied in a low voice.
“Yes and, as you no doubt know, it gives me quite a bit of discretion how I give your bottom that caning.”
I felt sick.
“Tell me, how did your boyfriend get his caning, young lady?”
“With, with his p, pants down.” I eventually whispered.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Ritchie?”
“With his pants down.” I wailed quietly.
Plimsol Pat was happy to play me like a cat with its mouse. “And tell me, Miss Ritchie, can you think of any reason why you should not receive the same treatment?”
I wish there had been, but of course there was none. I tried a plea. “Please, Mrs Baker, I am very sorry.”
“No doubt you are, and no doubt you will be even more ‘sorry’ very soon, but the question I asked was whether there is any reason why I should let you keep your knickers on for your punishment?”
Defeated I eventually replied, “No, miss.”
She chose that moment to reach behind me and take the cane from my hands. “Very well, go into the changing rooms and strip everything off below the waist, and your blazer and blouse too. Then wait for me facing the wall bars in the gymnasium.”
I looked at her open-mouthed in shock. This was not going to be a simple case of slipping down my knickers and lifting my skirt and slip.
However, my protest was anticipated. “Now, Sally Ritchie! I should warn you the letter also gives me discretion to add extra. I suggest you get a move on, given in my view you are extremely lucky to be allowed to remain in this school at all, given what you were doing or proposing to do with that boy here. If you don’t like it, you can, if you wish, return to Mr Arthurs and request that suspension.”
I closed my mouth; defeated I went to the changing room. She followed me in.
The room was large and really was two rooms, connected by a passage, off which the showers were located in the middle. The far end was the area for changing for outdoor activities; the nearer area was that for the gymnasium.
The showers were running and I could hear the girls talking as they cleaned off the grime of the run. Mrs Baker did not go in but shouted through. “Girls!”
I meanwhile dejectedly chose a peg and took my blazer and sweater off.
The noise dropped to that of the water only.
The games mistress then announced, “You will all remember the girl and boy who I caught in here before your run. Mr Arthurs has been generous and decided not to expel them. They have both been let off with a caning. I will shortly be giving Miss Sally Ritchie her punishment in the gymnasium. No girl is to enter the gymnasium or look in as I do so. Is that clear?”
As I reluctantly removed my unclipped my skirt, I heard gasps, then noises of assent from the girls.
What she said next chilled me, utterly horrified me.
“After, if any of you who wish to see what happens to girls who so flagrantly ignore school rules then you may wait until Miss Ritchie returns back to change.”
With that she took the direct door to the gym, telling me coldly to be quick about getting ready as she did so.
The next few minutes were terrible as I removed my stockings and suspender belt, (tights were an invention of my student days) and then my tie and blouse.
Each garment removed was one step closer to my doom, a doom being discussed avidly by the dozen girls in the showers as if I was not there. A particular debate amongst them was whether, and if so how much, I would scream. The consensus was I had no hope of keeping quiet. After all, most girls were wailing after a good dose of her slipper and everybody knew the cane was a lot worse than the slipper.
Their debate did nothing for my confidence. The quicker ones out of the showers had a good look at me stripping down as they left with a towel wrapped round them. Quite a few were watching as I finally removed my regulation blue knicks and, with as much dignity as one can manage when wearing only a vest with a bra underneath, walked to the door into the gymnasium. Those watching clearly stared at my crotch which I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me try to cover up in embarrassment.
Mrs Pat Baker was clearly “warming up”, doing stretching exercises as I entered.
She of course noticed me immediately. “Close the door behind you, girl!”
I did as I was told. Another step towards my doom. Involuntarily I found my hands tracing lightly over the cool flesh of my bottom. A bottom that now tingled lightly in anticipation.
I remembered her earlier order and went and stood facing the wall bars. I tried to keep my hands at my sides, but they kept wanting to finger the lower part of my buttock cheeks. The nerves were getting to me, it seemed my whole body was now tingling in anticipation as I waited in that rather cold hall.
I heard some noises as a bench was moved, then some sickening sounds; a rattle as the cane was picked up from where she had left it, followed by a swish as she tried it out.
There was about a minute of ‘swishes’ causing me to jump slightly each time. No doubt she was continuing her warm up exercises. The wait was terrible.
“Right girl. Over here!” She demanded.
As I turned, I noted she had got the gym bench away from the wall and placed it not far from the door to the changing rooms. I crept across, again trying not to show my embarrassment by covering up my front. As a games mistress, there was little she would not have seen in her time in any case.
There was an awful set determination in her eyes. There was nothing to give hope that she would consider it to be my first time, that perhaps she should go a little easy on me. I felt sick.
She pointed with the cane to one end of the bench. “Bend over, you know the position.” She ordered flatly.
‘The position’ she wanted was clearly the same as that she used for one of her not infrequent slipperings. Every girl in the school had seen one, and a majority experienced one (or usually more) across their navy blues.
Thus I went to the end she was indicating and put one leg either side of the bench. I then bent over and gripped either side of the wood keeping my legs straight.
“Right, hold tight, I intend this to hurt, as you absolutely deserve. If you don’t stay still I will add extra, and if necessary I will get my cross-country girls in to hold you in position!”
That would I knew be ultimate humiliation! I concentrated my thoughts on my hand grip as she started tapping my rear, now no doubt perfectly presented to her.
The swish came, then the thwack as it landed.
It was worse than I feared; the sting was almost overwhelming. I tried to bottle up the wail, remembering the girls who would, I guessed, be listening carefully on the other side of the door.
The second blow had landed. I felt a tear at my eye as I concentrated on bottling up the scream that so desperately wanted to escape.
The third crack was harder and was the one that defeated me. Low and hard, I could not keep in a banshee screech as the agony overcame every sense and thought in my body. Except one; I somehow managed to overcome my desperate desire to stand up.
As for the last stroke, my memory is only of sobbing and moaning before the agony as she completed the caning with a vicious cut, given after what seemed an age after the third one.
The moment it was over, I stood utterly broken and tried to clutch at the source of the excruciating stinging pain.
Plimsol Pat was having none of it. There was not to be even a small moment for me to compose myself. She grabbed my arm and immediately pulled me into the changing rooms where, through a sheen of tears, I could see the younger girls clustered in front of me. Unsurprisingly all had chosen to remain behind to witness my misery.
I was propelled round and made to put my hands on the changing bench. I gave a loud long scream amongst my sobs as she slapped each side of my bare bottom as she did so.
“So girls, this is what happens to naughty young women who still don’t know how to behave at eighteen. Take a good look and remember, if you don’t want to end up like Sally Ritchie here!”
I just sobbed miserably as Mrs Baker stood back to let them view the four raised tramlines on my bum, and had to listen to their gasps and comments once again as if I was not there, as if I was some zoo animal that could not understand what they were saying.
Eventually they were ushered out and Mrs Baker told me, slightly less coldly, to get dressed and out before the lunch break ended, unless of course I wanted to let her third form class see the consequences of my misbehaviour too.
It was a close run thing but I managed to get my face washed a bit and clothes on just before the bell. Bending to get my stockings back on and up was the worst part, worse even than slipping on my knickers.
It was impossible to walk along the corridor normally and it seemed that everyone in the school already knew, as I listened to giggles and guffaws about the ‘big’ sixth former with the teary face and red eyes, how I was tottering with tiny steps and having difficulty in not holding my poor bottom. Sitting in my French class after was awful; it was impossible to be comfortable on that hard chair and my stripes, I knew, were mostly clustered on the lowest part of my rear.
At the interval, after a trip to the girls’ bathrooms to use the hand cream to tend my own stripes, I went and found Liam. I desperately wanted to cuddle him, both for my own support and, as he looked as miserable as I did, his too. However, we were both too fearful of the consequences, and stuck to sympathetic grimaces, comments and a brief clasp of hands.
I know for some the cane gives after-effects that make them feel quite stimulated. However, that was not the case for me. Perhaps it was the sheer overwhelming embarrassment of the whole thing, being the only girl to have had the cane to applied to her bottom, and bare at that.
Whatever the case, it was an incident that for many, many years, indeed until very recently, I tried to forget ever happened. But of course never could.
© Joanna Jones 2014