Every lunchtime on Mondays, Headmaster Brian Hastings held a meeting with his Head Boy, Colin Kent, and Head Girl, Emily Montrose, to discuss school business. The meeting drew to a close with the headmaster asking if there was any other business. The two students, always keen to get away for their lunch, shook their heads.

“Thank you both. Colin, you may leave. Emily, could you remain seated please?”

Colin departed and, as the door closed behind him, Mr Hastings turned his attention to Emily.

“I could feel the tension rising during our meeting, Emily. Your imminent caning, no doubt. So, let’s put you out of your misery and get it done.”

Emily fidgeted uncomfortably in her chair. “Does it have to be a caning, Sir?” asked the pitiful girl, desperately hoping an alternative could be offered. But she knew the answer.

“I’m afraid so, Emily,” responded Brian Hastings, not altogether unsympathetically. “There were several witnesses, including a teacher, and so as much I would like to brush this incident under the carpet, it’s just not possible. I can’t be seen to be treating you differently to any other student.”

The Head Girl nodded miserably in reluctant agreement.

“I’ve arranged for Mrs Dawlish to administer the caning. You like her, don’t you? And she likes you. So, at least there will be empathy.”

“Perhaps she might go easy on me,” remarked Emily.

“I wouldn’t bank on that,” responded the headmaster with a smile.

“I was joking, Sir. I saw the after-effects of what she did to Phyllis, and she likes Phyllis too, so I’m under no illusion.”

“I am on your side, Emily,” continued the headmaster, who was genuinely disappointed she had been discovered breaking the rules, resulting in the forthcoming mandatory punishment. “Because you are a perfect, I could have awarded two extra strokes, but I haven’t.”

Poor Emily was trembling, much to her own annoyance. She was just about managing to avoid pleading and further humiliating herself. As one of the responsibilities of Head Girl, she had witnessed several canings of fellow students and had been quietly critical of those unfortunates who had made a fuss, never for one moment thinking she would be on the receiving end of a caning herself. Surely those days of her first and fourth-year canings had gone, but here she was. As a first-year, she was caned, one stroke on each hand. Not too bad, but the fourth-year caning, three strokes across her bottom, really hurt. And that was with the junior cane.

She was hardly listening as Brian Hastings read out the letter he was sent to her parents. But it suddenly registered with her. A letter to her parents would incur the wrath of her father and would undoubtedly result in a dose of the strap to reinforce the school punishment. She knew this because it was given to her after her fourth year caning and her younger brother had been subjected to a strapping on a couple of occasions to follow misbehavior punishments at school.

“Please, Sir. Don’t send a letter. Papa will thrash me on top of my caning.”

If nothing else, Brian Hastings was the epitome of honesty and fair play, and also compassion. He was not a keen advocate, but his contract stipulated corporal punishment must be administered if proscribed offenses were committed. He sat back in his armchair and looked at the miserable girl seated opposite, noting her usual calm disposition had deserted her.

“I am required to send the letter detailing your misdemeanor and the punishment awarded. But I will add that you have been properly punished and suggest no further punishment is required.”

With that assurance, he wrote the last sentence in the letter that might just save Emily from further physical punishment to be delivered by her father. He folded the letter, placed it in the envelope, and sealed it before handing it to Emily.

“Make sure you get it signed and returned tomorrow morning,” he said unnecessarily. Emily being fully aware of the procedures.

The time had come.

“Make your way over to Mrs Dawlish’s office. She is expecting you. Good luck,” smiled the headmaster, hoping to portray support and sympathy to his Head Girl for whom he had the greatest respect.

With the letter tucked into her blazer pocket, Emily left the headmaster’s office, barely acknowledging him as she departed. Heart thumping, mouth dry, hands clammy, she walked the corridor slowly towards Margaret Dawlish’s office. It was an unusually quiet corridor. Most students were at lunch in the dining hall on the other side of the school. Lunch couldn’t be further from her thoughts. There would be no lunch today.

She approached the lady’s restroom. A legitimate reason to delay her rendezvous with Mrs Dawlish. Probably a good idea to use the facilities before being caned. Stepping inside, she was confronted with a younger girl, disheveled, strands of her curly, shoulder-length blonde hair matted to her pretty face with the dampness of tears recently shed. She posed an amusing sight, skirt raised and both hands thrust inside her knickers massaging her bottom, a look of guilt, obviously just having just been spanked or maybe caned. With not a little embarrassment, she quickly adjusted her clothing and apologized, recognizing the Head Girl. Of all people why did it have to be the Head Girl? Could this mean more punishment for being out of bounds at this time of the day?

Temporarily, Emily forgot her own plight and put the youngster at ease.

“It’s OK,” she smiled. “What’s your name?” I take it you’ve just been punished.”

“Jennifer Hales. I got six hard spanks with the slipper from Miss Marshall for not doing my maths homework,” the young girl sniffled, volunteering more information than had been requested.

‘At least it’s over for you,’ thought Emily, then she shuddered at the prospect of her own punishment drawing forever closer.

“You’re not going to report me for being out of bounds are you?” asked the dispirited girl.

“No Jennifer, I’m not going to report you, but you best get on,” answered Emily.

Jennifer beat a hasty retreat with lots of thanks and left Emily to prepare herself for her own ordeal; standing in front of the mirror, giving herself a pep talk. No tears, yet, but they were not far away. Straightened her tie, flicked a blonde hair off the shoulder of her blazer, smoothed her skirt, and then the walk, the final few steps that would take her to Margaret Dawlish’s office.

Standing in front of the imposing dark wood door, taking a deep breath and with chin up, knocking loudly, trying to show confidence, not only to herself but also Margaret.

“Enter,” came the voice from within, and Emily turned the brass handle of the door, pushed it open, and stepped inside.

“Hello, Emily,” welcomed the Head of the sixth form girls, with a radiant smile. “And how are you? Silly question, I suppose. Look, Emily. I can understand just how you must be feeling.”

“Glad when this is over, Miss,” responded Emily, not attempting to hide her concerns. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Oh, it’s Miss now, is it? What happened to address me by my first name? I hope you’re not going to resent me for this. I don’t want to do it, but the headmaster has given me instructions. I thought of delegating to Anne Marshall, but that would be a cop-out,” explained Mrs Dawlish.

Emily stuttered, “I just thought that because this is a disciplinary matter I would need to be formal. But I’m glad you’re doing it rather than Miss Marshall. And no, I’m definitely not resentful towards you.”

“Good. Please take a seat. I need to let Miss Marshall know you’re here. She’s acting as the witness.”

“I don’t need a witness. Let’s just get on with it,” asserted Emily.

“Just as you act as a witness when I’m giving the cane to girls, there needs to be a witness to your caning. School rules.”

Margaret proceeded to contact Anne Marshall on the internal telephone, and she arrived within a couple of minutes, fresh from spanking Jennifer Hales.

Pleasantries exchanged, Margaret, turned to the trembling Emily.

“Right, Emily. Shall we proceed? You know the routine.”

From her experience of assisting and witnessing the canings of miscreants, Emily knew exactly what to do. Blazer was removed and placed neatly on the sofa. Tie loosened. Skirt unzipped and allowed to fall to the floor, stepping out of it before, slowly as possible, neatly placing it on top of her blazer. As she approached Margaret’s desk, over which she would position herself to facilitate her bottom being given the necessary chastisement, Emily observed with increasing trepidation Margaret reaching inside the cupboard to collect the senior cane.

Stretched over the desk, tightly gripping its far edge and, clad in skimpy, satin blue knickers, Emily’s bottom was nicely exposed for what was to follow. She breathed deeply.

“Are we ready, ladies?” asked Margaret, with an air of apparent nonchalance. Emily whispered and Miss Marshall, rather more firmly, answered in the affirmative.

“Sorry, Emily. This is going to hurt,” Margaret announced, rather stating the obvious.

And hurt it did.

“Oooh!” cried out Emily as the first stroke landed with a stinging explosion across her waiting derrière.

She held her position, fighting the urge to leap to her feet and apply some gentle caressing to her tortured bottom. A ten-second wait before the sound of the whoosh of the second stroke as it descended smartly into the lower reaches of her bottom. This, she could not tolerate and, ill-advisedly, she leaped to her feet.

She knew she had done wrong and there would be consequences.

“Oh dear, Emily. What do I tell girls who stand up during their punishment?”

Emily gulped. “An extra stroke for disrupting the session,” she groaned.

“Because I’m giving you a no-nonsense caning with the senior cane, promise me you’ll stay down for the remaining strokes if I let you off the extra.”

Emily tearfully nodded knowing she had broken the rules and was fortunate to be given this chance.

“I’m really sorry. I’m not handling this very well,” she muttered as she resumed her position across the desk.

“I know this is hard. I’ve never had it myself, but I am sure it is very painful. It will soon be over.”

“Would you like me to hold you, Emily?” asked Miss Marshall.

“That might be a good idea,” confirmed Margaret.

Emily, totally dispirited, ashamed of her performance and in some discomfort, was not thinking clearly, and she rejected the offer, and so Margaret continued with the third stroke. No less ferocious than the first two. The Head Girl gasped and was aware of hot, salty tears dribbling down her cheeks. Determined to remain in position, she wiggled her now well-marked bottom, to try and ease the anguish.

“Keep still, Emily,” came the order from the patient Head of Sixth Form. “Then we can get this done quickly. We’re already halfway there.” As though that was some kind of encouragement.

Emily didn’t see it that way. Her thoughts were that she was only halfway through the ordeal and questioned how she could possibly cope with further lashes to her already fiercely burning posterior. This was a new kind of pain, the like of which she had never previously experienced. And to add to the pain, the humiliation of it all. Not only the childish way she was acting up but also having to expose her bottom to get it whacked by the lady she regarded as her mentor and for whom she had so much respect.

The ten seconds ticked by and, with the precursor whoosh, the fourth stroke arrived. Emily was right. She couldn’t take it. With a plaintiff wail, she again jumped to her feet, clutching her wounded bottom. This time, Margaret was not so forgiving.

“Emily Montrose! You have witnessed several girls being caned and none have behaved as childishly as you. This is a punishment. It’s meant to give you something to think about. With respect to the girls who have received extra strokes for disrupting their canings, you will now receive an extra stroke. Anne. Please assist Emily to stay in position.”

Emily, shamed once again, took up the required position across the desk. This time, Miss Marshall held her wrists to the desk and Emily’s caning could continue without further interruption. The fifth stroke found its target with accuracy and venom. Emily shouted out with a plea for mercy. But school canings are not meant to be merciful. Number six found a space between two lines of angry red welts, but number seven, the extra stroke, was going to be difficult to avoid a space not previously visited by Margaret’s swishing cane. Margaret eyed up the crease just below the now bruised and heavily marked buttocks displayed in front of her. Realising a strike to that crease between lower bottom and top of the thighs was extra sensitive, she eased back on the strength of her final stroke. Emily’s shouting out and pleading had now been replaced with an acceptance sobbing and groaning.

Margaret surveyed her handiwork and, although caning her favourite pupil had been an unfortunate necessity, she was pleased with her professionalism having got the job done. She acknowledged the assistance of Miss Marshall, and they chatted for a few seconds before she returned the cane to the cupboard. After completing the details in the punishment register, she pushed the red-leather bound book towards Miss Marshall for her to sign as the witness.

Emily, very quick to leap to her feet during her caning, was now very slow to make any attempt to raise herself off the desk.

“It’s over, Emily. You are free to get up when you’re ready.” Margaret gently applied a helpful hand to the poor girl’s shoulder. “Sign the register for me,” and presented her with the pen.

Struggling to see clearly through her tears, Emily painfully bent over the register located on the desk. A tear rolled off her cheek and landed on a previous entry in the register, immediately causing it to smudge. She noticed it was on the name Cheryl Osborne, a close friend, from two weeks ago, and she had no idea her friend had been caned. Emily noticed Anne Marshall had acted as the witness and she was to discover later that Cheryl had particularly asked that Emily should not be present.

“Oh!” remarked Margaret, and she reached for the blotting paper to soak up the teardrop. “No harm done.” But the smudge was to remain there for the lifetime of the register.

 

4 o’clock, and there was the usual bustle of students preparing to head for home. Emily had spent a miserable afternoon in the sixth form room and had excused herself from her General Studies lesson. She had gone through the ritual of having to show off her newly acquired stripes to her fellow sixth formers, which caused her some embarrassment because she and everyone else never thought the Head Girl would ever be up for a caning. There was a mix of genuine sympathy, but also some amusement and satisfaction amongst some girls, especially those who had previously received some attention from Margaret Dawlish’s cane.

A knock on the door, and a fifth form prefect entered with a message for Emily. “Could you report to Mrs Dawlish before you go home tonight?”

Rather curious, Emily made her way to Margaret’s office for the second time today. Not so nervous this time, but wondering what Margaret now wanted. Greeted with a warm smile, she was invited to sit.

“Unless you would prefer to stand,” smiled Margaret, referring to Emily’s still sore bottom. “I just wanted to make sure you’re OK.”

Emily, gently rubbing her bottom and faking a grimace, guardedly replied, “It hurts but I’m getting over it.”

“I’m sure it does still hurt, but I’m more interested in your emotional state. You were quite distressed when you left here. More so than any other girl that has left here with a sore bottom.”

“I’m really sorry, Margaret. I made a complete fool of myself and I feel ashamed. I can’t believe what you must think of me.”

“No shame. Girls have different pain thresholds. Yours would seem to be rather low. And I’m sorry I had to give you that extra stroke for standing up. But with Miss Marshall acting as the witness, I had to conform to the rules. I guess that’s the reason for the witness. To see fair play.”

Margaret changed the subject. “Are you coming to netball practice later?”

“No, I don’t think so,” snapped Emily. “I’m not in the mood to be teased about my well-caned bottom, and those girls can be quite ruthless.”

“Don’t worry about them. A good run around on the netball court will do you some good,” badgered Margaret.

“No, I’ve got to face my parents with the dreaded letter, and I need to get that out of the way. And then I think a soak in a nice hot bath.”

And so it was. After dinner, Emily nervously showed the letter from Headmaster Brian Hastings to her parents, detailing her wrongdoing and subsequent punishment. A long discussion followed with both parents emphasizing how they were disappointed with her, but thankfully her father agreed, following an embarrassing discussion on the state of her bottom, to delay giving her a spanking until the weekend.