A chance meeting with an old teacher from school.

by John Switch

There may have been better years to start university, but as far as Susan Wilson was concerned 1977 was still pretty good. Durham was a beautiful city and outside of her lectures and seminars there was a huge range of societies offering all kinds of sports and intellectual activities.

She signed up to the Women’s Group and wore her membership badge prominently, which a number of male students told her put them off her. As far as Susan was concerned, that made the badge an excellent idiot filter.

There was only one fly in the ointment, and it had nothing to do with the University. She thought she had scratched the itch of her obsession with caning, but as her first term progressed she realised she had not. On odd occasions, her one experience of corporal punishment at school came back to her mind. She had hated being put across the headmistress’s desk and given six strokes on a bottom protected only by a skimpy pair of knickers, but the feelings she had afterwards had not been totally unpleasant.

She envied the women who came out as lesbians in Group meetings. At least they had the assurance that, whatever society’s prejudices, there were others who loved as they did, and many more who accepted their love as valid. Desiring a woman’s love though you were a woman yourself was, if not common, at least a known thing. But who else but a freak would desire to be caned? No-one, Susan felt sure. It was not a known thing; it was never discussed, so Susan kept her silence despite her wish to confide in someone. She did not want to be rejected by her friends the way some of them had been rejected by their families.

For the most part, she was able to push these thoughts and desires to the back of her mind; it was only on those occasions when she could not sleep that they came forth to trouble her.

The first term ended and, after a few days and nights of partying, Susan headed back to her parental home.

A couple of days later, she was in the local shopping centre, laden with bags and easing her way through the crowds, when she heard her name called. She turned to see her former maths teacher, Abigail Miller.

“Oh! Hello, Miss Miller.”

The teacher reached Susan. “I’m not your teacher any more, Susan, and I’m only a dozen years older than you. I’m sure it won’t be a gross breach of propriety for you to call me Abigail now!”

“OK, Abigail.”

“Excellent! Do you fancy a coffee, or maybe something stronger?”

“All the cafes will be heaving, but we might get a table in a pub.”

“Good thinking. The Crown’s about a quarter of a mile away; we’ll go there.”

As they entered, Abigail asked Susan what she wanted.

“Pint of best bitter, please.”

Susan grabbed a table in the lounge bar while Abigail went to order the drinks. Susan could see that she was having some sort of debate with the landlord. Susan would have been prepared to bet her entire grant that he had just told her, “We don’t serve pints to ladies.”

Her suspicions were confirmed when Abigail returned with a glass of red wine and a half pint of beer.

“Sorry. He was fairly insistent.”

Susan shrugged. “We’ve been having that argument all term with the Student Union bar staff.” She took out her cigarettes, offered one to Abigail then took one herself.

Abigail lit up for both of them. She took a drag, exhaled and smiled. “I see being caned didn’t put you off smoking!”

“It put me off bringing them to school!”

“I wondered if it would do even that.”

“Why wouldn’t it? It’s not as if I like being caned!” Shit, that was a bit defensive!

Abigail drew on her cigarette and looked at Susan thoughtfully. “Don’t you?”

“What makes you ask that?” Susan squirmed in her seat, remembering her caning as if it had happened yesterday.

Abigail sipped her wine. “That morning, when you were squirming on your chair like that, you were smiling.”

Susan felt her face heating up. She was tempted to abandon her drink and run, but she had barely prepared to stand when she paused. She had so often wanted someone to confide in, and here, clearly, was an opportunity. She took a mouthful of beer, swallowed and drew on her cigarette.

She looked around. There was no-one close by, but she still lowered her voice and leaned forward so that only Abigail could hear.

“Don’t ask me why because I don’t know, but all my school life I found school corporal punishment, both ruler and cane, absolutely fascinating. I used to wonder what it would feel like to be caned.” She drew on her cigarette again and lowered her voice yet further. Leaning forward, she continued, “I more than half wanted it to happen so, that morning, when I was waiting to be caned, I was scared but I was excited too.” She drank more beer. “Somehow, the thought of being physically punished for something I’d done wrong really appealed. It hurt, obviously, and I didn’t like that, but the act of submitting did.” She drew on her cigarette again. “And yes, I liked how it felt after the pain of the caning had eased a bit, and I liked how it felt sitting on my caned bum!” She ground out her cigarette. “You can tell me I’m a freak and weirdo now!”

Abigail squeezed her hand. “Susan. You are NOT those things!”

“Am I not? Does anyone else in the whole wide world actually want to be caned? I don’t think so!”

Abigail squeezed her hand again. “Then you think wrongly.”

“Who else do you know?”

Another squeeze.

“You?”

Abigail smiled. “On occasion, though I prefer to be on the other side as a rule.” Her smile broadened briefly, then she assumed a serious expression. “You obviously fibbed to me that morning because clearly there was more to tell me. Wasn’t there?”

“I suppose so.”

Another brief smile. “No ‘suppose’ about it, young lady! And there’s a price to be paid!” She paused, then added, “The same price you paid for having cigarettes in school.”

Susan felt a peculiar lightness in her abdomen.

My God, she wants to cane me!

 She thought about it.

Well, I have been having those thoughts and feelings. And I’m not likely to be presented with another opportunity!

 She finished her beer, then nodded. “When? And where?”

“No time like the present. My house would be the obvious place.”

I’m actually going to do this! I’m going to be caned again!

 Susan felt the dread she remembered from her wait to be caned by Mrs Braithwaite, but this time she felt more of the excitement at the prospect.

They gathered up their shopping and walked to Abigail’s car. As they put it in the back seat, she looked at Susan. “Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?”

Susan nodded.

I actually do!

“It’ll be a proper school caning. I won’t be holding back.”

Susan swallowed, then laughed nervously. “So long as you don’t write to my parents. Mum slippered me last time!”

Abigail laughed. “No danger of that! This will be purely between the two of us. Now stop shilly-shallying, young lady!”

“Yes, miss!”

Susan got into the front passenger seat and wiped suddenly damp palms on her jeans. During the short journey, she felt her bottom tingling in anticipation of what was to come. She wriggled in her seat.

On arrival at Abigail’s house, Abigail showed Susan into the lounge.  She drew the curtains and switched on the lights. “Take a seat while I go and fetch the cane.”

“Yes, miss.”

The cane! Fetch the cane!

 Susan heard a door being unlocked and Abigail’s footsteps on bare wooden stairs. Faint sounds from below, then footsteps ascending the stairs.

Abigail entered the lounge flexing a traditional school cane about a metre long, very much like the one Mrs Braithwaite had used on Susan in the Upper Sixth form.

“Take down your jeans and lie on the sofa arm!”

Susan obeyed, pushing her jeans down to her ankles. She lay where instructed, her shoulder-length black hair spilling down over cheeks, her upper body resting on the sofa cushions, her hips on the arm itself, elevating her bottom, and her legs stretched out. Squash sessions had kept her in good shape and she felt inordinately proud of what her former teacher would be seeing. She relaxed, fully prepared now to submit to her punishment.

Susan felt her knickers being pulled down, and she lifted her hips to allow them to be pulled down to mid-thigh, leaving her bottom totally exposed.

I’m going to get a bare-bottom caning!

 She felt the butterflies in her stomach as she contemplated the prospect.

Abigail Miller flexed the cane and swished it through the air. “I have to say, Susan, I’m a little disappointed in you. I thought I could trust you to be honest with me.”

“I’m sorry, miss, I was too embarrassed to admit it. And it was difficult to explain; it wasn’t that I liked being caned. I didn’t. I just liked how I felt once I’d recovered.”

“I could have helped you.”

Helped me? Caned me? Would I have even wanted that back then?

 “I’m sorry, miss.”

Abigail placed the cane on the middle of Susan’s bottom and drew it back. Susan raised her head and looked over her left shoulder, watching her. She saw the cane being raised, saw and heard it swish through the air, saw and heard it connect with her bottom, felt the burning streak. She gasped.

“Eyes forward, young lady!”

Susan obeyed and lowered her head to the cushions. She felt the cane being placed on her bottom again, a little below the first blazing line, and drawn back and forth before being raised.

Swish-crack!

Susan gasped again.

Swish-crack!

“Aaaa!” She was breathing heavily now.

Oh God, why did I agree to this?

Swish-crack!

“Owww!”

Just two more!

Swish-crack!

“OWWWW!”

Last one now!

Swish-crack!

“AAAAAGH!”

That’s it!

 Susan’s lungs pumped rapidly, but slowed as she lay soaking up the heat of the caning.

“You may stand whenever you wish.”

“Thank you, miss.”

When Susan’s breathing had returned to something like normal, she did stand, placing her hands on her bottom, feeling the six evenly spaced ridges on her lower buttocks. She looked up at her caner and smiled wanly.

“Are you alright, Susan?” Abigail asked.

Susan nodded.

“If you like, I can give you my phone number here and if ever you need to talk about anything, you can call me.”

“Thank you, that would be great!”

“Well make yourself comfortable while I make us a pot of tea, then afterwards I’ll give you a lift home.”

“Thanks, Abigail.”

The End

© John Switch 2021

I am always happy to discuss stories with readers. My email is Johnnedludd@aol.com