A girl’s fascination with corporal punishment leads her into a situation that runs out of her control. A thoughtful and emotive story.

By Jane Finney

When I was at school in the eighties, the particular institution of learning I attended had a rather fearsome reputation for corporal punishment. This came about mainly as the result of a court case. Several years previously, a mother complained to the school after her daughter had received a caning. The complaint concerned not the punishment itself, but rather the fact that the girl had been obliged to lift her skirt to receive it. The headmaster responded that the school had no intention of changing its policy, which stipulated that girls were to be punished with their skirts raised, and boys with their trousers down.

The mother, not satisfied with this, and discovering that no other school in the area had a similar rule, insisted on taking the matter to court and a trial eventually took place. Both the headmaster and headmistress attended the trial, and made some convincing arguments, noting that no member of the opposite gender was present during a punishment, and that the number of canings administered annually by the school was considerably lower than in other local schools; the implication was that this rule inspired students to make a special effort to avoid doing anything that might lead to their being caned.

The court found in favour of the school, and the policy remained unchanged. But this case did lead, perhaps indirectly, to the two heads insisting that future punishments be more carefully recorded. Whereas previously a caning would be carried out immediately, now the misbehaving pupil would be informed in advance that he or she was to be caned. A punishment slip would then be placed in the register of that pupil’s class, and delivered to him or her during the morning registration session. This slip would contain details of exactly what kind of punishment – how many strokes, and with which cane – he/she was to receive, and when and where he/she was to receive it. I had frequently seen these sealed envelopes being given to my fellow classmates, and whereas the boys usually tried to act unconcerned, the girls would sometimes burst into tears when they opened the envelope and read the message contained therein, even though they knew in advance that they would be receiving it.

Like most other students at the school, I was terrified of the cane, and for the first two or three years went out of my way to avoid it, very successfully I might add. But, towards the end of my third year, I began to have fantasies about being caned. I had, of course, discovered the joys of masturbation, and, as I progressed from the third to the fourth year at school, I increasingly imagined being caned as I gently touched myself in bed. I was always an advanced reader (my parents were extremely liberal, and allowed me to read anything), and it was around this time that I discovered THE STORY OF O. I recognized immediately the nature of the fantasies I had been having.

Of course, as these fantasies developed, I started to think – flippantly at first, but soon with increasing seriousness – of doing something that might lead to my being sentenced to a caning. But actually carrying out this plan was not as easy as you might think: for one thing, I wanted to avoid doing anything so serious that it might merit suspension, or even expulsion; but there was also the danger of doing something not serious enough, and being placed in a very unwelcome detention.

A pivotal moment occurred when our registration teacher, Mrs Fowler, was away for a few days, suffering from an illness. We all liked Mrs Fowler, so I suggested it might be a good idea to buy her a get well card, and have everyone in class sign it. I asked our substitute teacher for Mrs Fowler’s address: he informed me that he did not have it, but advised me to ask the headmistress, Miss Green. So, during the morning break, I knocked on the door of Miss Green’s office, explained what I wanted to do, and asked for Mrs Fowler’s address. Miss Green was more than happy to oblige: she took a piece of paper from a pile on her desk, folded it in half, folded it again, and wrote the address down on it. I purchased a card at the local shop, had all my classmates sign it, and copied the address Miss Green had given me onto the envelope before stamping and posting the card. The piece of paper I stuck in my blazer pocket and thought no more of it, until, after arriving home, I found it while changing out of my school uniform. I was about to throw it away when I noticed that something had been printed on the other side of the paper. Out of idle curiosity I unfolded it, and discovered that the address had been written on the back of a blank punishment slip. The slip contained the following information:


Punishment Slip

To _____________

An appointment has been made for you to receive ____ strokes of the junior / senior cane on ________ the ____ of ________ at ______ AM / PM The punishment will take place in Room ____

Late arrival (up to ten minutes) may result an additional stroke being added. After ten minutes, it will be assumed that you have missed the appointment, and a new appointment will be made for you, with four strokes added.

Girls who are experiencing their periods and, for that reason, wish to be punished at a later date should turn up for the appointment and request a one week delay.


Given the nature of the fantasies I have described, you can probably understand why I found this slip incredibly exciting. I had never actually seen one before, and could easily understand why girls were frequently reduced to tears upon receiving it. Imagine seeing your fate laid out there so coldly on the page, with the exact punishment, the instrument that would be used to deliver it, and the time and date on which you were required to present yourself for it. I tried to imagine what it would be like to receive one of these forms, with my own name and the facts about my planned caning precisely recorded for my information.

Finding a pen, I carefully wrote my name in at the top of the page, then paused to consider what imaginary punishment I would give myself. I knew that 6 strokes with the senior cane was the most I could receive, but decided that this was bit much for a first timer, even in a fantasy: I could, I thought, probably take 6 with the lighter junior cane, but only about 3, or at most 4, with the heavy senior cane. Still, I could theoretically be sentenced to 6 with the senior, and the entire appeal of this particular fantasy was that I would have no control over the situation. So, my hand shaking slightly, I wrote ‘6’ in the blank space between ‘receive’ and ‘strokes’, and carefully crossed out the word ‘junior’. That night, I snuggled into bed, and began touching myself between the legs while looking at ‘my’ punishment slip. I achieved orgasm within a few minutes, and found myself repeating the process on a regular basis. It was as if I only had to look at the letter to feel turned on.

As you can imagine, my desire to receive a real caning became more and more intense. But, try as I might, I could not think of a way to reliably assure myself of corporal punishment. I was a quite, bookish girl who spent most of her spare time reading (still true, by the way), and could hardly conceive of behaving in a way that would attract a caning. As I entered my fifth and final year at the school, I started to accept, with more than a little disappointment, that I was unlikely ever to be caned. I actually considered telling Miss Green that I was curious about what the cane felt like, and asking to receive a few sample strokes. This idea had a certain appeal; if I placed myself in a position where I was to receive a genuine punishment, it was quite possible that I would find the pain unbearable; if I simply asked Miss Green to satisfy my curiosity, I could ask her to stop when I had had enough. But I knew that I would be too embarrassed to ask Miss Green for this, and had no reason to think she would accept if I did.

In any case, the fantasy really depended upon my having no control at all, of being totally helpless as I received the punishment somebody else had assigned to me. I knew by this time that my fantasy was a common one, and there were women called dominatrices who would give you any kind of caning you asked for in return for cash. When I was older, I thought, I might seek out one of these women: but that had some of the same advantages and drawbacks – or rather advantages which were also drawbacks – as my other idea: I would be able to stop the session if it became too much, but would not have the feeling I desired, one of being totally powerless.

The solution to my problem arrived from an unexpected source. The school had strict uniform policy which stipulated that girls must wear skirts. Most of the other local schools at least allowed fifth year girls to wear trousers, and some had introduced a trousers option for girls in all years. The girls at our school hated being obliged to wear skirts, and, when we arrived in the fifth year, felt it was simply unfair that we were being denied the choice to keep our legs warm in the winter and to wear clothes that were more like our out-of-school wear (a choice enjoyed by all the boys).

My friend Anita was the informal leader of the pro-trousers lobby, and one day decided to take up a petition demanding that the skirts only rule be abandoned. She collected an impressive number of signatures, and asked me, along with three other confirmed skirt-haters, to form a committee that would visit the headmistress and present her with the petition. Thus it was that the five of us nervously knocked on the door of Miss Green’s office, politely explained why we had come, and handed the petition to her.

Miss Green looked through it, and shook her head. She then explained that she had received similar requests, and even petitions, before, and that they had always been turned down. The school was, she claimed, proud of its uniform policy, and thought that the insistence on smart dress helped maintain a generally high standard of behaviour. “In a few months,” she informed us, “you will be able to wear whatever you want. But for now you will have to respect the expectations your elders have concerning how young ladies should dress.” She appeared to be finished, and we prepared to depart. But, as if suddenly remembering an important point, Miss Green continued: “I have, incidentally, heard that in some schools elsewhere in the country the female students have staged some kind of trousers rebellion; that is to say, they got together and decided to turn up one day wearing trousers instead of skirts in order to protest against the uniform rules. So let me tell you this: such behaviour will not be tolerated here. Any girl who enters the school grounds in trousers will receive the cane. I hope I make myself clear. You are dismissed.”

So there it was – the solution to my problem; or perhaps a way of getting myself into something I would later regret.

Outside Miss Green’s office, the general mood was despondent. “Damn.” said Anita, “That’s exactly what I was planning to do – ask several girls to join me in wearing trousers.”

I tried to conceal my excitement as I said: “But I think it’s still a good idea. I don’t know about you, but I’m wearing trousers tomorrow.”

Anita looked at me as if I were mad: “Which part of ‘Any girl who enters the school grounds in trousers will receive the cane’ did you not understand?” she asked.

I decided to take the high moral ground: “What’s right is right: it’s simply not fair that boys should be allowed to keep their legs warm in trousers while we have to freeze in skirts. I’m wearing trousers tomorrow”.

Anita looked at me as if she couldn’t quite figure me out: “Frankly, I very much doubt it,” she said, “but if you do, you’ll be on your own”

At home that evening, I found a neat pair of black trousers, and left them out, ready to wear in the morning. But, as I thought about what I was doing, I started to become scared. If I turned up at school in trousers tomorrow, there would be no turning back. If I made the decision to do this, that would be the last decision I would make in this affair. After I walked though the school gates in trousers, all the decisions would be made for me, written on a form, and delivered to me in the morning register. In short, now that I was close to fulfilling my fantasy, I was starting to get cold feet. I would surely never have such an opportunity again, and if I didn’t take it, I knew I would regret it. But if I did take it, I would perhaps regret it even more. I hung up both my skirt and my trousers, figuring that I didn’t need to make up my mind until the morning. That night, as I climbed into bed, I took another look at ‘my’ punishment slip, and contemplated the very real possibility of replacing it with the real thing. The prospect both frightened and excited me. I achieved an orgasm in less than a minute.

The next morning, I awoke and once again considered my choice of clothes. But really the choice had been made. I reached out for the trousers, and climbed into them.

To say that my arrival at school in trousers aroused a great deal of interest would be something of an understatement. Every girl I passed asked me why I was dressed like that. I explained to them that I was protesting against an unfair school rule, and received several admiring comments.

When Anita saw me, she shook her head: “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But I hope you also have a high pain threshold.”

When I arrived at my registration room, Mrs Fowler looked at me in bewilderment: “Why on earth have you come in dressed like that?” she asked.

Once again, I explained that I was protesting against what I saw as an unjust situation. Mrs Fowler just sighed and said “I’m afraid you’re going to have to go and see Miss Green.”

As I walked out the door and along the corridor towards the headmistress’ office, I felt a little uneasy. This was really it. I knocked on the door, and was told to enter. Miss Green looked up and glared at me. “Well,” she said, “It’s not exactly difficult to see why you have been sent to see me. Would you care to explain exactly why you are out of uniform?”

“It’s not fair,” I responded. “The boys can wear trousers all the time, but we have to conform to these outmoded ideas about how women should dress. All the other schools in the area let girls wear trousers, at least in the fifth year.”

Miss Green regarded me with a look of strained patience, and, to my surprise, admitted that she had some sympathy with my position, but that it was important to obey the rules of society, which for me were the rules of the school, however much we might disagree with them. She seemed a lot less angry than yesterday, and it now seemed to me very unlikely that she would require me to endure a caning. I felt a twinge of disappointment, but this was swamped by a great feeling of relief. I had, I knew, put myself in a position where I could have been given a very painful punishment, and, much as that idea had appealed to me in the abstract, as soon as it confronted me as a more or less tangible reality, it lost much of its appeal. Miss Green continued by telling me that she would be keeping an eye on me, and expected to see me the next day in a skirt. That seemed to be that. She then added, almost as an afterthought, “Of course, as I said yesterday, any girl who turns up in trousers will be given the cane, so you can expect to receive a punishment slip tomorrow morning. Dismissed.” I turned around without saying a word. As soon as I was outside the office, I exhaled. This was really going to happen!

I spent much of the rest of that day both dreading what was to come and, at the same time, excited. I should add that, despite the shadow now hanging over me, it was just great to wear trousers all day at school. I felt much more adult, somehow, and received several jealous looks from skirt-wearing girls (it was a cold February day). It was with some reluctance that I put away my trousers when I arrived home that evening, knowing that I would never dare wear them to school again. In bed that night, I looked once more at what I had come to regard as ‘my’ punishment slip, knowing that, this time tomorrow evening, I would be holding the real thing; a genuine punishment slip with my name written on it, not in my own handwriting, but rather in Miss Green’s, accompanied by the exact details of my caning.

How many strokes would I receive, I wondered? Given Miss Green’s attitude that morning, it was unlikely to be more than 3, or 4 at the most. But with the junior cane or the senior cane? What exactly did those terms mean, anyway? Obviously, the senior cane was thicker and more painful. But was it only used on older, more ‘senior’, girls? Or did ‘junior’ and ‘senior’ refer purely to the amount of pain they caused? Surely the latter was the case; one could hardly expect older students to endure a more painful experience than younger ones who had committed the same crime! Three strokes with the junior cane was pretty much all I expected to receive, and that prospect was not so terrifying. In any case, I knew that, as I had so fervently wished, the matter was now entirely out of my hands. It had been decided that I was to undergo an unpleasant experience, and Miss Green would make all the decisions regarding exactly how unpleasant it would be.

When I arrived in class the next morning (I was, needless to say, correctly dressed in my skirt this time), I was not surprised to hear Mrs Fowler calling my name after the register had been taken. “Jane’, she shouted, “You have a P Slip here”. (P. Slip was the official term for the punishment slips.) I walked up to the front of the class, signed a form to say that I had received the letter, and was given a sealed envelope on which my name, ‘Jane Finney’, had been written in Miss Green’s neat handwriting. I had been dreaming of this moment, and now, to my excitement and terror, it had arrived. I walked back to my seat, aware of the sympathetic looks I was getting from my classmates, and even from Mrs Fowler, who apparently disapproved of corporal punishment. Did they think I would cry, like the other girls who had been handed one of these envelopes? Oddly, I did feel like crying; I can honestly say that, if I had been given the choice of not receiving this punishment, even if it meant a detention, I would have taken it without a moment’s hesitation. But knowing this somehow made the whole experience more thrilling, and I resolved not to open the envelope until I was at home that evening, and could savour it in full.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. I so wanted to tear open the envelope and see exactly what fate, or at least Miss Green, had in store for me. But I managed to resist the temptation, and, as soon as I arrived home, placed the envelope on my bedside table, waiting until a time when I could be assured of a little privacy, I eventually crept into bed, and took one last look at my ‘fake’ punishment slip, recalling the sexual thrill I had felt when looking at it previously, now knowing that a very genuine slip was awaiting me. I ran my hands over the envelope, drinking in the sight of my name written there, and finally, unable to wait any longer, tore it open and pulled out the piece of paper contained within.

Unfolding it, I quickly glanced at its contents, and received my first shock of the evening: the number ‘6’ had been written in the space provided for information concerning the number of strokes, and the word ‘junior’ had been carefully crossed out. So I was to receive 6 strokes with the senior cane; the maximum sentence possible! How could this be? All I had done was wear a pair of trousers! And it was my first crime!!

I reached up to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen into my eye, and found, to my surprise, that a single tear was running down my face. I honestly did not think I could endure 6 strokes with the senior cane, but, at the same time, I knew perfectly well that the decision had been made for me. I gazed once again at my false slip, and was able to savour the irony; the two slips were exactly identical. I was going to get what I wanted alright, and I was going to get it in spades.

All that remained was to see what date had been set for my punishment. And that’s when I received the second shock of the evening. The date was given as Friday the 12th of February. The time: 4 PM. Friday the 12th? That was today! I glanced at the clock: 9 PM I had missed my appointment by five hours!

How could I have been so stupid! Why didn’t I simply open the envelope as soon as I received it, as anybody else would have done! I glanced down at the next paragraph on the punishment slip, a paragraph I had not paid much attention to before, thinking that nobody could possibly be dumb enough to fall foul of it: ‘Late arrival (up to ten minutes) may result an additional stroke being added. After ten minutes, it will be assumed that you have missed the appointment, and a new appointment will be made for you, with four strokes added.”

I covered my face as tears fell down my cheeks. But wait, I thought, this was silly. I had made an honest mistake in assuming I would be given plenty of advance notice of the punishment date, and waiting until I had arrived home before opening the envelope. I would go and see Miss Green on Monday and explain the situation. Certainly she would not insist on the four extra strokes. I felt relieved as soon as I realized this, but still scared about what was awaiting me: 6 strokes with the senior cane was nothing to laugh about.

On Monday morning, I was again the recipient of a communication that came with the morning register. Mrs Fowler called me to the front of the class and showed me another envelope with my name on it, pointing out the letters ‘MA’ written in the top left-hand corner. “That,” she informed me, “means ‘missed appointment.’ For some reason you missed a punishment appointment, and have been given a new one, with additional strokes. Oh Jane, how could you have let this happen?”

“It’s alright,” I explained, “it’s just a mistake. I’ll go and see Miss Green later and sort it out.”

Once again I signed to say that I had been given the form, and walked back to my seat with the handwritten envelope. But this time I tore it open immediately. As anticipated, this form was identical to the previous one, except that a ’10’ had been written in to indicate the number of strokes, and the date was set for the coming Friday, the 19th, at 4.15 PM.

As soon as the morning break began, I went directly to the headmistress’ office and knocked on the door. Now, I should point out that I was not exactly blind to the irony of this situation. Only a few months back, I had been thinking about asking Miss Green to give me a few strokes of the cane as a favour, to satisfy my curiosity. Now here I was going to her office to beg her to reduce the number of strokes in an official caning sentence.

I had not, I recalled, asked her for the previous favour because I suspected she would say no. I guess I’ll never know for sure. One thing I can say for certain is that she said no to the latter request, and in no uncertain terms. She dismissed my claim that I did not read the punishment slip until I had arrived home as obvious nonsense, pointed out that I had signed for the envelope in the morning, and said that the only reason she was not awarding me additional strokes for lying was that 10 with the senior cane would be the most severe punishment she had ever given, and she saw little point in making it even worse. I was, she informed me, dismissed.

As I walked to the door, ready to leave, I turned around and, to my own surprise as much as hers, began to plead: “Please miss, I’m really sorry, but I can’t stand 10 strokes, I just can’t. Not even with the junior cane, let alone the senior one. I’ve never been caned before. I’ve never even been spanked.”

Miss Green was unimpressed: “Your decision to flagrantly disregard my instructions and challenge my authority by wearing trousers after I specifically told you what would happen if you did so was outrageous. I had little option but to give you the maximum sentence, and, quite frankly, I am glad that your cowardice has resulted in the addition of four extra strokes. I will see you on Friday at 4.15 PM, and I strongly suggest that you arrive on time.”

The days that followed seemed to both drag on forever, and speed by, hastening the arrival of my punishment. I must say that I was still excited about the event. I had, after all, been dreaming of this for years. Of course, I had gotten far, far more than I wanted, and was genuinely terrified, but, after all, this was exactly what I had wished for; the feeling of being out of control, of being coldly sentenced to a punishment, of knowing that the decisions about how much pain I should feel, and whether or not I could take it, were completely out of my hands. Others had made decisions about how many times they were going to beat my rear with a cane, what kind of cane they were going to use, and how hard they were going to apply it. They had coldly informed me of their decisions in a letter. All I had to do was turn up and suffer.

On Tuesday afternoon, I sought out a girl whom I knew had been caned recently, and asked her to describe the experience. “It was just horrible,” she began. “I received six strokes on a Friday afternoon. Miss Green always schedules the most severe punishments for Friday after school has finished, so that you’ll have the weekend to recover. And wow did I need that weekend! I couldn’t sit down comfortably until Sunday, and had to sleep on my side for two nights. The bruises were still visible a week later.”

I gulped as I listened to this. “I didn’t know that even the senior cane did that kind of damage,” I said. The girl shook her head. “I had the junior cane. The kind of damage the senior cane would do is something I don’t want to think about. Don’t tell me you’re getting the senior!”

I felt myself begin to shake; “I thought only the younger girls were given the junior”. “No,” my friend replied, “it’s given to anyone when they’ve done something serious enough. After six with the senior, I should think you’d need medical attention. Don’t tell me you’re getting six!”

I swallowed as I reassured her: “No, I’m not getting six.” As I walked away, I felt worse than I did before. Six strokes with the junior cane was considered serious enough to take place on a Friday, so that the recipient could spend the weekend recovering. I was to receive ten with the senior.

The following day, I decided to do some last-minute shopping. Although I was furious about the rule which enabled boys to wear trousers while girls had to wear skirts, I had to admit that the school uniform rules gave the girls an admittedly very small advantage over the boys when it came to corporal punishment. The uniform rules allowed girls to wear either socks or tights. If a girl chose the latter option on the day of a caning, she would have two layers of protection, whereas a boy in the same situation would have to take the punishment over just their underpants. I had never worn tights before – they looked really uncomfortable – but I wanted that thin layer of protection. So, after school on Wednesday, I went to the local shop and purchased a pair of tights.

I spent the early part of Thursday evening making a few preparations – I had to tell my parents, who were properly horrified, about my forthcoming punishment, as I knew I would be taking my meals standing up for the next few days, and would be unable to join the family for any functions which involved sitting down. We agreed to cancel a trip to my aunt, as sitting in the car, even for a brief period, would probably be impossible.

As I lay in bed that night, I suspected I would have trouble sleeping, especially since I knew it would be quite a while before I would again be able to sleep on my back. This was it. Tomorrow, I would receive a horrible punishment, one that I would not soon forget or, so it seemed, soon recover from. I looked again at my punishment slip; there was no question that this was still exciting, and the more horrible it threatened to be, the more exciting it seemed.

On Friday morning, I dressed quickly, pulling on my tights for the first time. They felt just as uncomfortable as I expected them to be. I’ve never liked tights, and the few times in my adult life when I’ve been required to wear them, I’ve always found myself associating them with corporal punishment, the immediate context for my first exposure to them. They didn’t seem to promise much in the way of protection either, but anything was better than nothing.

The school day seemed interminable – I was hardly able to take in any of my lessons, and before I knew it, the bell had rung to signal the end of the day. It was 3.45, and I went straight to the corridor outside Miss Green’s office; I was determined not to be late this time! I arrived at 3.50, and found that there was already another girl waiting. Presumably, she had a 4 PM appointment. I was amused to note that the girl was also wearing tights. Scared minds apparently think alike.

“The cane?” I asked her. She nodded, a tear forming in her eyes. “Four with the junior”, she whispered. “Me too,” I lied. I didn’t want to deal with any more expressions of incredulity about the severity of my punishment. There seemed nothing more to say, so we stood there in silence until the clock showed it was 4 PM precisely. At this point the girl visibly steeled herself and knocked on Miss Green’s door.

I heard Miss Green say “enter”. The girl did as she was told, shutting the door behind her. There followed a period of silence lasting perhaps five minutes, after which a loud whack preceded a blood-curdling scream. This was repeated another three times, with each whack at the same level, but the screams rising in volume, accompanied by pleas for mercy. “Please Miss, that’s too hard” said the girl after the third stroke. ‘Miss’ apparently disagreed, since the fourth stroke resounded just as loudly in the otherwise empty corridor. A few more minutes of silence followed. Then the door opened, and the girl came out, tears pouring down her face. She walked limpingly down the corridor without saying a word to me.

I looked at the clock; it was 4.13. In two minutes I would have to go through the same thing as that girl; only much, much worse. The seconds seemed to drag by endlessly, and as the minute hand prepared to click onto 4.15, I steeled myself, just as I had seen the girl doing, and knocked on the door. “Enter” said Miss Green, and I shuffled into what I was now thinking of as the room of pain. Miss Green looked up from her desk, and seemed amused at something.

“Hello, Jane. I’m glad to see you have decided to keep this appointment. Though I must say it’s funny how girls who have never worn tights before suddenly find it necessary to expand their wardrobe whenever they are going to be caned. I suppose you think it provides you with more protection, but I simply apply harder strokes to compensate”.

A cane lying on the table before her caught my eye, and Miss Green seemed to notice this. “That”, she explained, “is the junior cane, but we won’t be needing that”. The junior cane looked scary enough, so I was not exactly sorry to see it being removed from sight and placed in a cupboard, even though I knew what was coming to replace it. But if that cane scared me, the cane Miss Green selected in its place made me want to run from the room. It was long, thick, and obviously very flexible. Miss Green swished it through the air, and the sound it made thoroughly convinced me that I would not want to be standing in front of it the next time it moved in such a fashion. Except, of course, that in front of it was exactly where I would be standing – ten times in a row.

“I see no need for any preliminaries,” said Miss Green. She gestured with the cane to a chair in the middle of the room. “Approach the back of the chair, raise your skirt, which I see you’ve had the decency to wear today, and bend over, gripping the left and right sides of the seat.”

I approached the chair. This was it. What I had dreamed of and dreaded. I desperately wanted to escape. I was about to be deliberately subjected to an experience so painful that it would take me several days to recover, an experience that would leave my bottom bruised and sore. And I had no choice in the matter.

I raised my skirt, feeling more vulnerable than I had ever done before, quickly ran my hands over my behind, knowing that it would be quite a while before I would again be able to touch this area of my body without pain – but also reassuring myself that both my tights and my pants were there, providing a bare minimum of protection – and bent foward over the chair. I gripped the seat.

Miss Green swished the cane again, making me shiver, and said “Ten strokes. Spread your legs a little.”

I did as I was told, knowing this was the last action that would be required of me. From now on, I would not have to do anything; rather, something would be done to me. Miss Green lined the cane up on my backside, pulled it back, and brought it down again with great force.

The pain was indescribable, but what made it worse was the knowledge that this was no accident; it was something somebody had deliberately made me experience. I cried out, ‘Ahhhhhh,’ gripping the seat for support. The cane rose and descended a second time, making contact just below where it had hit previously. Again I screamed at the intolerable pain, shouting ‘Unnnngh’. I moved my knees together, and raised my feet off the floor in a desperate attempt to ease the pain. “Feet on the ground, legs apart”, commanded Miss Green. “And keep them there this time”. Again the cane descended onto my backside, and this time it really was too much. I jumped up, screaming ‘Arrrrrghhhhhhh’, and clutching my bottom.

I knew that this was it. I had been curious, and my curiosity had been well satisfied. Now I required, and could endure, no more. I turned around, my skirt hanging half-way down my legs, tears pouring from my eyes, and looked pleadingly at Miss Green. “I’m sorry Miss, But I just can’t take another 7 of those. I just can’t. It’s too much. I’m sorry, really I am, but…”

Miss Green interrupted me by pointing the cane in my face. “Here’s what’s going to happen.” she said. “You are going to bend over that chair, spread your legs, and not move from that position while I continue your well-deserved punishment. This is not, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, supposed to be a pleasant experience. It is supposed to be horrible and unendurable, the kind of thing you would want to go out of your way to avoid in future. If you do not immediately resume your position and maintain it throughout the rest of your punishment, I will fetch two members of staff – female ones if I can find them, male ones if I can’t – and have them hold you down. And if I have to do that, you will be forced to lower your pants and tights and receive the remaining strokes on your bare bottom. The choice is yours. What’s it to be?”

Drying my eyes, I again raised my skirt and bent over the chair. “But please, not so hard Miss.” I added as I gripped the seat.

“The strokes will all be applied with equal force.” responded Miss Green as she lined up the cane and quickly brought it down for the fourth time. I gasped, but somehow managed to maintain my position. The fifth and sixth strokes followed, bringing two loud screams from me. Miss Green stood back and laid the cane on her desk before walking around to the front of the chair. I looked up at her, not bothering to wipe away the tears streaming down my face.

“Now,” she began, “If you had not been so cowardly and turned up last Friday for your appointment, your ordeal would be over. As it is, you still have four more strokes to look forward to.” She bent forward and looked me directly in the eyes. “Is it now clear to you,” she asked calmly, “that breaking school rules is not a good idea?”

I simply nodded. By this point, my rear was nothing but a throbbing mass of pain. The thought of even touching it gently with my fingers filled me with terror. I wanted nobody to ever touch that part of my anatomy again. But Miss Green intended to touch it. Oh yes. And she did not intend to touch it gently.

She walked back to her desk, and picked up the cane again. Once more she lined it up and brought it crashing down on my bottom, causing a new spasm of agony and a new cry of pain. Again the cane descended. “No!” I screamed out as it cut into my rear for the eighth time, “No, please no.” But I managed to stay in place, gripping the seat tightly.

The ninth stroke followed soon after. This time I threw back my head and screamed as loudly as I could. The pain was now beyond intolerable, and into some new dimension. Had I, I thought dimly, actually wanted this? The thought was interrupted by the tenth and final stroke. I could simply not scream any more, so just groaned, glad that at last my ordeal was over.

“Stand up and lower your skirt.” barked Miss Green. I did as I was told; even the movement of the skirt’s smooth fabric over my bruised butt was painful. “I see no need for speeches.” said Miss Green. “Your punishment is over.” She picked a book up off the table, opened it, pointed to a place near the middle of the page, gave me a pen and told me to sign.

I saw the words “Jane Finney – 6 strokes for being out of uniform and defiance of authority; 4 additional strokes for failing to keep first appointment”. I wrote my name in the margin. Miss Green closed the book and said “You may go now.”

I limped out of the office and walked through the school gates in a trance. I caught the bus that would take me home, hoping the bus driver would not ask why I was standing when so many seats were free. He didn’t. In all probability, he knew what it meant when students in this school caught the bus so late.

At home, I immediately pulled off my skirt, tights and pants, and examined my bottom. As I expected, it was a mass of bruises and weals, but at least there was no bleeding. I tried gently washing it, but the pain was still too great. That night I lay on my side, looking at my punishment slip. It still seemed almost breathlessly exciting, and I decided to keep it as a memento. The ‘fake’ punishment slip had long been thrown away, but this one kept its power. Despite the still horrendous pain in my rear, I found my right hand creeping down to touch myself between the legs as I thought back over the events of this painful but memorable day. I had finally been punished.

The End