(pause) The anticipation is electric—each second stretched as I wait for the first stroke. When it comes, the sensation is sharp, a sting that blossoms into a deep, throbbing heat. I feel exposed, vulnerable, yet strangely safe within the boundaries of her authority. Each stroke is delivered with purpose, the sound echoing in the silent room, my body tensing and then yielding to the rhythm. (short pause)
(pause) My emotions swirl—shame, excitement, a longing to please, and a curious sense of pride for enduring the ordeal. The headmistress’s calm, unwavering presence lingers in my mind long after the dream ends, her discipline leaving a mark not just on my skin, but deep within my imagination. (long pause)
(pause) Sometimes, I wonder if there is a touch of witchcraft in these dreams and desires—a secret magic that weaves through my subconscious, blurring the line between memory and fantasy. In the depths of these dreams, the air itself seems to shimmer with possibility, as if unseen hands are drawing ancient symbols in the dust motes that dance in the sunlight. (pause) There are moments when I feel the presence of something otherworldly—a faint scent of herbs and candle wax, the soft crackle of unseen flames, the gentle hum of whispered incantations just beyond the edge of hearing. (pause)
(pause) In these lucid dreams, I sometimes find myself standing in a circle of salt and wildflowers, the floor beneath my feet cool and tingling with energy. My hands move of their own accord, tracing patterns in the air, and I sense a current of power flowing through me, as if I am both the conjurer and the conjured. Shadows flicker along the walls, taking on shapes that feel both familiar and strange—owls, keys, crescent moons, and the ever-watchful eyes of women who came before me. (pause) The headmistress herself sometimes transforms, her features shifting into those of a wise crone or a veiled enchantress, her cane becoming a wand or a staff, her words echoing with the weight of ancient spells. (pause)
(pause) The sensations in these dreams are heightened, almost supernatural—the brush of cool air against my skin feels like a caress from another world, and the sting of the cane is accompanied by a rush of energy, as if each stroke is a ritual act, sealing a pact or unlocking a hidden memory. I feel as though I am being initiated into a secret order, the pain and discipline a kind of alchemy that transforms fear into strength, shame into power. (pause) Sometimes, the boundaries between dream and waking life blur so completely that I awaken with the taste of iron and honey on my tongue, the echo of a chant still vibrating in my chest. (pause)
(pause) I can’t help but sense that these dreams are more than mere inventions of my mind. They feel like echoes from a past life, specifically from the late 1940s—a time I have never lived, yet know so intimately in my bones. The details, the emotions, the rituals of discipline and authority—they arrive with such clarity and force that I am left in awe, wondering at the mysterious, almost magical connection between my subconscious and these vivid experiences. (pause)
(pause) I can only think of one possible cause for these dreams. This happened in my formative years. I had an elder sister, and for probably a series of misdemeanours, my stepmother said she would cane her. My sister was ordered to bend over the arm of the settee. (pause)
(pause) The room was thick with tension, the air heavy and still, as if the house itself was holding its breath. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the curtains, casting long, trembling shadows across the faded rug and the worn upholstery of the settee. I remember the faint ticking of the clock on the mantel, each second stretching out, amplifying the sense of dread and anticipation.
