The Old School House

A letter causes a few surprises

By Kane Strokes

Despite Stuart having left the museum some months back, Helen was still expecting him to be standing there. Now she had Doug, and Doug appeared to have all the social graces of a stereotype museum person, more intent on peeling away the dust to find some historical trinket or artefact than peeling away the thin veil that hid the sensual woman that is Helen.

As with Stuart, she tried mildly flirting; a low cut top and some interesting perfume. Helen also made sure she bent over right in front of him. Alas, he kept his hands to himself.

One evening, though, out for a drink, he did give away the smallest hint that women require regular spanking. Helen had sat up and taken note. For the first time she really looked at him; a rugged face, typical of an outdoor man, windswept, weather beaten and interesting, handsome in his own way, not the pretty boy celebrity looks, clear blue eyes and an aura that he would take so much, then there would be trouble. Helen hoped she knew what sort of trouble that would be.

Tuesday started like most other days. Helen was at her desk. Doug came in with the morning post.

“This one looks ominous, addressed to you, from a solicitor.”

He handed Helen the letter in its heavyweight envelope. Helen took the letter. A quick slice with a paper knife and the envelope was opened. The letter in Helen’s hands, she read through the letter, quietly, saying nothing. Doug hung around, hoping to glean some information. Helen finished reading and put the letter down.

“A local man, Malcolm Burns, he was headmaster at the very exclusive and very private boarding school, St Stripes. It’s on the outskirts of Aberdeen. He has died. Before the solicitor can complete probate, we have to clear his study in the Old School House, the contents of which he has bequeathed to the museum.”

“Poor old Malcolm, I didn’t know he had died.”

“You knew him?”

“Not really knew him, he was more of an acquaintance. We might have the odd drink together. We held the same beliefs. We spoke the same language, old school, if you know what I mean.”

“I see. Anything interesting?”

The words ‘old school’ had sent a pleasurable tingle down Helen’s spine.

“Not really, just putting the world to rights, putting the world back as it was.”

Helen shifted uneasily on her chair, hoping what she thought Doug had meant was right.

“I have to arrange an appointment to meet the solicitor at the old school house where he has further instructions from Mr Burns in a sealed envelope. We are both required to attend, as is the last will and testament of Mr Burns.”

“Both of us?” Queried Doug. “Very strange, but if that is his dying wishes, I feel a duty to agree.”

“Of course,” replied Helen reaching for the phone.

An appointment was made to meet the solicitor at the old school house Thursday morning, at 10am. During the rest of Tuesday, and throughout Wednesday, Helen did as much research as she could into St Stripes. There was very little to be found anywhere. It was a very exclusive and very private school. Nothing even appeared on the ‘Friends Reunited’ website.

The school had closed 20 years ago. The school building and the dormitories had been converted into luxury flats. All that remained was the school house, where St Stripes’ ex-headmaster, Malcolm Burns, lived.

Thursday morning, Helen and Doug met the solicitor, Mr Ripoff of Ripoff and Screwem. He showed Helen and Doug to the study within the old school house and so opened the door to a time-gone-by era; a time of well built solid furniture and deeply upholstered leather chairs. No plastic or pvc, no self assembly chipboard book cases or veneers, everything was solid wood. The deep grained mahogany desk, matching display cabinets and cupboards. Alphabetical pigeon-holed drawers and a rotating card index that would render a modern day secretary clueless. Book cases full of reference books dating back almost 50 years, log books bound in leather. Helen and Doug feasted their senses on the treasure trove that had opened before them.

“Under the terms of the will, Mr Burns bequests some or all of this room to the museum. You have an hour to decide what you wish to accept. If you wish to accept anything, there is another envelope for you. It is sealed. I know nothing of its contents. I will leave you now to take a closer look.”

Mr Ripoff left, leaving Helen and Doug to assess this Aladdin’s Cave.

Helen looked through the school log books and found the one that interested her most; the Punishment Book. She read through the long list of miscreant girls, their offences and punishments.

“Your friend wasn’t afraid of using the cane on a naughty girl’s bottom, was he?” Helen questioned Doug.

“Or on female members of staff either, come and look at this.” Doug replied.

Doug had the school log book for 1975. A young teacher fresh from university, her first job, refused to use the cane in the classroom to discipline unruly girls. Several members of staff had made representations to the head about the noise and chaos emanating from her classes. She was summoned to the see Mr Burns, and was given a choice; instant dismissal or twelve strokes of the cane. She opted for the caning and thereafter proper discipline was restored to her classes.

As Helen read through the basic information in the log, Doug had found a far more graphic description in a personal diary.

Helen left the log books to start investigating the cupboards. One cupboard was like a Welsh dresser but without the glass doors. She opened the doors to find a selection of tawses and canes, from the lightest and stingiest for the first formers to the heaviest tawses, and swishiest thickest cane for the upper sixth form girls. Drawers held a selection of thick soled plimsolls.

Subconsciously Helen rubbed her bottom as she surveyed the collection. At the same time, a strange mix of emotions surged through her body.

Doug came over to see what Helen had found. He reached into the cupboard and removed the senior girls cane from its hook, flexed it and tapped it in his palm. There was a sinister swish as Doug cut the air with it. He took the cane back to the desk and sat down, flexing the cane in his hands.

“So, Helen, what brings you to the headmaster’s study?”

Never before had this happened, but Helen was tongue-tied. Looking at Doug flexing the cane, she so wanted to touch her toes. Her state of being tongue-tied didn’t last long.

“Doug, I’ve just had this incredible idea. We accept everything. Some of the logs will have to be archived as some people mentioned may still be alive, because of all this data protection nonsense. We get a photographer to photograph this room from every angle. We then recreate this room within the museum. We can make it a living museum so visitors can come into the headmaster’s study to be told off and threatened with the cane next time. You will be the headmaster, but I don’t think you’ll be allowed to cane anyone. These canes and tawses will be on display. We will find one without a history as your prop.”

Doug thought about Helen’s idea.

“Yes, like those living museums and their Victorian Schoolrooms?”

“That’s it exactly,” replied Helen.

“Five minutes, and the solicitor will be back. I suppose I had better put this away.”

Helen thought she noticed a reluctance from Doug to put the cane away. At the same time, Doug was wishing he had a little more time to have Helen bent over the desk for all the flirting and teasing he’d taken from her.

Mr Ripoff returned exactly as he had said and asked about the bequest.

“The will bequests the entire room?” Asked Helen.

“Yes, it does.”

“In that case we will accept the generous bequest in its entirety.”

“That means I have to give you this.”

He handed over a sealed envelope addressed to Helen and Doug.

“As I said, I know nothing of its contents. I’ll leave you the keys to lock up when you leave. The house still has water and electricity; feel free to make yourselves a drink if you wish.”

Ripoff made his farewells and left. Helen opened the envelope and took out the letter.

Dear Helen and Doug, 

As you’re reading this letter, three things are certain: I am deceased, my estate is in the hands of my solicitor applying for probate, and you have accepted my bequest to the museum. 

Before you accept this bequest, there is a clause, a clause I can’t enforce, as only the three of us know the contents of this letter. Abiding by the clause is a matter for your conscience. 

I have been a frequent visitor to the museum. I have watched your antics, Helen, with Stuart and now Doug. It is obvious to any red-blooded man you are angling to get your bottom smacked. Well, so be it. 

Doug, I’m surprised that you haven’t as yet upended Helen and given her the spanking she wants and deserves. I have watched many a time as you have struggled NOT to smack her bottom. 

The clause: Helen, your behaviour has been disgraceful. The day of reckoning has come, young lady. You are in the headmaster’s study. You will fetch the senior girl’s cane from the cupboard and hand it to Doug. You will then touch your toes for six of the best on your bare bottom. Doug, I know you are a skilled practitioner in the use of the cane. Our standards are alike, so you know what is required. 

You are welcome to take all you want for the museum. Whether you honour my clause or not is between you and your conscience. 

Regards

Malcolm Burns (deceased)

A silence hung in the room, neither of them knowing what to say. Doug was flustered. More than anything, he wanted to spank Helen’s bare bottom. He wanted to accept the clause. Everything Malcolm had written was correct.

As he was looking for the words, Helen walked to the cupboard and removed the senior girl’s cane. She handed the cane to Doug.

“There is no question about it, we accept the clause. I agree with him, this is deserved. It is also wanted and needed.”

She walked to the other side of the room and unclasped her trousers, letting them drop to her ankles. She stepped out, her black, slightly see-through, panties small enough to be exciting, encased her bottom. Helen put her thumbs in the waistband and lowered them all the way to her ankles. Doug was transfixed watching her. Helen walked to the centre of the room, allowing Doug plenty of room the swing the cane. She bent over and touched her toes.

Doug looked at Helen who now had the classic pose of so many naughty girls about to be punished, disciplined or corrected for whatever misbehaviour or attitude that had brought them into conflict with authority. He looked at her legs, not long legs, nice legs, with curves in all the right places. Firm trim thighs, parted just enough to give a hint, but not reveal what secrets lay between them. Her bottom full but not fat, all the signs of a woman proud of her figure and keeping herself trim. Doug considered Helen’s blemish free bottom that very shortly would be embellished with six angry red welts raised by the cane.

Helen could feel Doug’s eyes surveying her. Did he like what he was seeing? She didn’t look back. She kept her eyes looking down, staring at the parquet tiled floor, and thought of the long list of names in the Punishment Book who had probably looked at these same tiles while waiting for the biting sting of punishment from the headmaster’s cane.

“You will maintain that position; there will be penalty strokes for standing up. After the last stroke you will wait until you are told to stand. I find it very undignified to see a girl jumping around holding her bottom the minute the last stroke has been given.”

“Yes, sir.” Helen heard herself saying.

Doug tapped the cane firmly against Helen’s bottom; were her sit spots to be first to feel the cane’s fiery kiss? The aiming taps had enough sting in them for Helen to feel some pleasurable effects. She heard the ominous swish sound of the cane speeding towards its target, not knowing if Doug knew anything about the wrist flick. Doug did. The cane accelerated and struck Helen’s bottom with a loud ‘CRACK!’ which echoed around the bare plaster walls of the study. There wasn’t enough time for Helen, between hearing the swish to feeling the cane strike her bottom, to blink her eyes. The cane paid but a fleeting visit to her bottom, and in that short space of time had kissed her bottom with a line of stinging fire. A single narrow ridge of pain was burning across the fullness of her bottom, the rising welt covering both cheeks equally.

Helen knew to expect the next stroke would soon be on its way to leave another kiss of fire.

Doug watched the welt rising across Helen’s bottom, the thin narrow welt flaring out. That was a stroke to be proud of, a stroke Malcolm Burns would have been proud of. Yes, he had taught him well. It was also a stroke for Helen to be proud of. She had taken it well without murmur and without flinching. Now, how well would she do with this stroke?

He brought the cane back, another horizontal stroke aimed lower than the first. Helen heard the swish of the speeding cane. Once more, the sound of it impacting on her bottom reverberated around the room. The length of time the cane had taken to leave its kiss was minimal; the sting it left in its wake was maximum. The pain of both welts became a white hot heat, yet they didn’t touch. The skin between them was a fiery red.

Doug always took pride in anything he did, and none more so than now. He admired the parallel welts burning and stinging Helen’s bottom, creating a special soreness unique to the cane.

Now to test her; the cane swished down as fiercely as before, the impact cracked around the study as the cane delivered its narrow branding iron low down into Helen’s bottom. She knew it would happen, but not just yet. The stroke took her off-guard. Her hands flew back to try to soothe the tortured nerves. She was unable to suppress the natural desire to stand and try to heal an injured bottom, but caused herself more hurt. Her eyes had dampened and already a small bubbling brook of tears was trickling over her cheeks.

“Penalty stroke, we will do that one again.”

“Yes, sir,” Helen heard herself saying again.

She resumed her position, steeling herself for the worst of stinging strokes in a most sensitive area.

Doug observed, the last stroke was rising, spreading. He considered his options; to cane exactly on top? No, the area would be numb. Slightly above, or slightly below? Doug drew the cane back, aiming just below the last stroke. It would be another agonisingly stinging stroke and cause her pain for several days, but this was a punishment.

Helen braced herself, ready for the awful sting of the cane striking her; the swish, the crack, then the pain and sting coursing along the underside of her bottom. She held on, but couldn’t suppress the yell as the welts burnt hotter than ever. The bubbling brook of tears was now a stream in full flood. There would be more tears to come, of that Helen was certain.

Doug now concentrated on the untouched part of her bottom. Two more parallel welts brought further pain and sting to Helen’s bottom. Each stroke caused her to yell, and then yell louder.

Helen braced herself for the last stroke, by tradition the hardest and most painful stroke. Her mind was tormented with thoughts as to where this stroke would strike. Would she be able to stay in position and hold there until told to stand? She waited, anticipating, and being tormented by Doug cutting the air with the cane, each swish causing Helen’s bottom to clench, not knowing if this one was the real one.

Malcolm had taught Doug well, using every trick to torment this errant woman. Twice he had cut the air, now this third time the stroke would follow instantly across her bottom.

Helen’s bottom tightened as the cane cut the air the third time. As she relaxed, the cane was already speeding towards her bottom. The swish, the acceleration from the flicked wrist, the crack as the cane impacted and left her, leaving behind a fiery kiss that exploded on Helen’s bottom to new levels of burning sting and pain. The diagonal stroke crossed the previous strokes.

Helen yelled and fought hard to stay touching her toes. She cried floods of tears she didn’t know she had. Her bottom throbbed and burned like a forest fire out of control.

Doug surveyed Helen’s sore, striped and shapely bottom. He wondered if he had tamed the temptress or ignited the flames of passion within her. Time would tell. He looked up at the portrait of Malcolm Burns looking down on them. To himself, he promised Malcolm, when they next met on the other side, the drinks are on him. He still couldn’t believe the audacious clause concocted between them had actually worked.

The End

© Kane Strokes 2016


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