“You are in a bad mood tonight, Joan. What’s got into you?” asked Anne as she poured herself a second, not measly, tumbler of Joan’s whiskey.
‘You attacking my scotch doesn’t help my mood,’ was the silent thought that came into Joan’s head, but she would not be so unkind to express that to her friend, perhaps her only real friend.
“I had to cane Lizzie Scott this afternoon and I’ve got Christine Kent tomorrow morning,” answered Joan Summerfield, headmistress of St Margarets 6th Form College. “I dislike caning girls. It’s such a chore. They come into my office looking terrified. I don’t know what they think I’m going to do to them. It’s just a caning. Compared with the whippings I endured in the Wrens, the canings I administer are mild.
“She took it badly, I assume,” remarked Anne Parkinson, deputy headmistress.
“No worse than most of them. Snivelling, grovelling, pleading. It’s all so unbecoming. Watching them undress, bending over my desk, showing off their bottoms. Crying out, yelping. Histrionics. It’s all so unladylike.”
“More is the pity you can’t delegate to me,” observed Anne. “I’ve not caned a girl for three years since I left Radford Grammar to come here. I quite miss it. Spanking is OK but not nearly so rewarding as delivering a good caning to a deserving student.”
“You know I’ve spoken to Tom Gregory to get you authorised, but the school governors are reluctant. I think the next move will be to ban the cane altogether. As it is, I am the only one allowed to use it, so you will have to confine yourself to using the slipper.”
Anne briefly went into daydream mode recalling her housemistress’s role at Radford Grammar.
“You know, Radford Grammar was mixed and I had authorisation to cane both boys and girls. I loved the drama. The excitement reached fever pitch in the admin office when they knew there was going to be a caning. I had to tell the young ladies to calm down on more than one occasion. It was the rule that recipients were required to attend their caning appointments wearing their gym kits and so they had to undergo the walk of shame up to my office with everyone who saw them knowing they were reporting for the cane.”
Joan delivered a rare smile. “Boys’ bottoms are designed for caning. Not so girls. Girls’ bottoms are designed to be affectionately fondled, gently squeezed, and lovingly caressed.”
“Perhaps you could offer the girls an alternative punishment,” laughed Anne.
“I remember two years ago. Janet Wilson came to me for the cane. Cheeky minx. Smiling, she wiggled out of her skirt as though she was doing a striptease. Saucily asked if she should remove her knickers, knowing full well that I always cane over one item of clothing. Bent over my desk, provocatively gyrating her bottom, bouncing up and down until I ordered her to cease. If she thought I was going to go easy on her after that performance she was mistaken. She was howling by the third stroke,” mused the headmistress.
“So, it’s Christine Kent tomorrow,” said Anne, thoughtfully sipping her whiskey. “I had reason to spank her a few weeks ago and I have to say she didn’t take it very well. Just saying.”
Joan sighed. “She shouldn’t have been sent to me. Pansy Potter is over zealous. Of the five girls I have caned this year, she has sent four of them. She was on the prowl and spotted Christine smoking. I know smoking is a mandatory six strokes but she could have turned a blind eye. These girls are old enough to make their own minds up and, as long as they are discreet, let them get on with it.”
“So says a lifetime smoker,” remarked Anne with a smile. “And Beryl Potter is a conscientious teacher. You shouldn’t be so rude about her.”
Joan had formed her opinion of Beryl Potter, (or Pansy as she disrespectfully called her after a comic character,) and her opinion was not for changing.
“I wish all girls would take their punishments like Carol Horton. She entered my office, chin up, shoulders back, eye to eye contact. Yes she was trembling but her voice was strong as she apologised for her misdeeds and taking up my time. She took her six with hardly a whimper. She was hurt but hardly showed it. Afterwards she held her hand out to shake my hand. I was most impressed. That’s how a girl should take it. I have my eye on her to become head girl next year.”
“Come in Christine,” ordered the headmistress, and she observed a chubby girl, pretty, very curly, shoulder length, jet black hair, displaying the usual nervous demeanour of a girl about to be caned for smoking.
“Caught red handed, I understand?” commented Joan.
Christine uncomfortably shuffled her feet and remained silent, assuming she had been asked a rhetorical question.
“Anything to say in your defence?” asked Joan in a not unkindly manner.
“I was just stubbing out my ciggy when Mrs Potter caught me,” ventured the hapless girl.
Joan shook her head, almost sadly, as she scrutinised the nervous girl standing before her.
“If you are taking the risk to smoke on school premises, that suggests to me you are addicted. You can’t go even a couple of hours without having a smoke. I doubt me caning you will stop you from smoking,” pondered the headmistress, herself a smoker since joining the Wrens way back in 1942. “I started smoking when I was just a bit older than you. I’ve tried unsuccessfully to give it up. It’s expensive, dirty and now scientific journals are reporting it may be unhealthy. Apparently it might have a bad effect on your lungs. So my advice is to give it up before it’s too late. Not just to avoid being caned but because you understand it’s the sensible thing to do.”
Christine was hardly listening, her eyes transfixed on the cane lying on her headmistress’s desk.
“I’m sorry, Christine, but I’m required to do this. Remove your skirt and lean over my desk. You are going to receive six strokes of my cane.”
A very nervous girl obediently complied and prepared herself for a mountain of pain. Joan Summerfield had little appetite for administering this particular punishment, but it was her duty and responsibility and so she would do the necessary. Taking her time to observe the girl’s rotund, fleshy bottom, conveniently displayed for a searing attack, she thought to herself, rather unkindly, there was plenty to aim at.
Unleashing the first stroke, Joan aimed towards the lower reaches of the buxom girl’s bottom and, within a split second of connecting, the inevitable howl of anguish echoed around the room. Much to the disapproval of the headmistress.
“For Heaven’s sake, Christine. Crying out after the first stroke, and it was only a gentle tap.”
With her military background of firm discipline, strict adherence to obeying orders and accepting punishments without complaining, Joan was critical of these young girls acting up when confronted with a mild dose of corporal punishment.
After the shock of the initial impact of cane across bottom, Christine settled down to receive the next five with the minimum of fuss. Some sighing and wriggling but no further yelling.
“Good girl, Christine. Last stroke coming up,” encouraged the headmistress as she landed the sixth and final stroke with a flourish.
Christine sobbed quietly and for two minutes remained in position until told to stand. She did so looking flustered, tears dribbling down her cheeks, accompanied with much gentle caressing of her aching bottom.
“I suppose you’re going off to find a quiet corner for a cigarette,” suggested the headmistress knowingly, having a good understanding of these episodes. “You need to be very careful,” she warned. “If you get caught you will be back here for another round of the cane and I won’t show you any mercy.”
Christine was dismissed and hobbled away, indeed to find a quiet corner and calm her nerves with a cigarette.
Joan Summerfield continued as headmistress for another two years before retirement. She lived alone for three years before being diagnosed with lung cancer and passed away within the year.
Anne Parkinson was promoted to headmistress and got her wish to administer canings to deserving bottoms.
Christine Kent was one of the few visitors to Miss Summerfield after she had retired and indeed saw her just a few days before her former headmistress’s demise. She had taken Joan’s advice and had given up smoking.
The End
© Robert Roberts 2024