When she thought back to it, Rachel was not sure which she had noticed first: the glimmer of light that appeared under the storeroom door, or the creak of the stairs as someone started to walk down towards the basement.

Matt had clutched her to him, their hearts pounding. He turned off the light, then put his index finger to his lips, and quietly whispered: ‘Shshhh,’ as Rachel quickly pulled her blouse back on, hands shaking. To be caught after lights out, out of bounds, with her boyfriend, having been to the pub, having been smoking…. no, it didn’t bear thinking about. And then the footsteps drew nearer: doors further along the corridor were opened and closed… With nowhere to hide in the small, shelf-lined room, Matt wedged his foot against the door, leaning against it.

The footsteps stopped: whoever it was must be right outside the room. Rachel watched as the door handle turned, but Matt’s weight prevented it from opening. And then… the door flew back, pushing Matt out of the way, the light was switched on… and she found herself staring into the eyes of Simon Jones. Simon Jones… Head Prefect of Burlington School.

And more to the point: Simon Jones… her former boyfriend, from whom she had parted so acrimoniously at the end of the previous term. And for whom she still… cared. A great deal. Missed, even, despite all of the arguments and tension that had led them to break up.

Simon looked Rachel up and down, taking in her untucked blouse and flustered appearance. Then he gestured at Matt: ‘Who’s he?’ Hesitantly, stumbling over her words, she replied… ‘A friend… Matt Grove. He lives in the village.’ Oh damn, damn, DAMN: why had he had to find them like this?

‘So what are you doing on Burlington School property, Mr. Grove?’ Mr. Grove! Goodness, Rachel thought – they were only 18. Simon could be pompous at times.

‘I decided to walk Rachel home.’

‘From where?’

‘From the… from the village’. Thank goodness he hadn’t said pub!

‘And?’ Simon looked at them both.

A pause… ‘And?’ Matt replied.

‘And you walked her back to the School front door, but took a wrong turn and happened to end up with her in a storeroom in the basement?’ Simon queried. Rachel had forgotten how sarcastic he could be.

There was silence. They all looked at one another. Then Simon spoke. ‘Well, Mr. Grove, perhaps you had better follow us up the stairs, and I will show you the way out..’ He gestured to Rachel to go ahead, then to Matt, and reached for the light switch, having a last look round the small room. He stopped, and reached over to the shelf: ‘Oh don’t forget your cigarettes, Mr. Grove. I’m sure Miss Fox won’t want them, and it’s a shame to waste them.’

Rachel’s heart pounded as they walked up the stairs, and out onto the ground floor corridor. Simon took the way, and they followed him towards the side door. Simon opened it, and showed Matt out into the cold night, with a final sneering comment at the back of the departing figure ‘Don’t come back, Mr. Grove, there’s a good chap.’

He shut the door, and turned to Rachel. ‘Well, Miss Fox…’

‘Simon, please…’

‘Please what?’

‘Please… I mean… we weren’t doing anything wrong.’ Rachel was shaking now, terrified at the possible consequences of this. After the Headmaster’s warning in assembly the previous morning about the clamp down on disciplinary matters that he was going to personally impose, she knew she could be in real trouble. Goodness, she might even get suspended. Her parents would never forgive her.

‘Not doing anything wrong?’

‘No. Please, Simon. Come on – we’re still friends aren’t we?’

They looked one another in the eyes, Rachel seeking out some sign of warmth, or friendliness. Simon stepped back: ‘Miss Fox, I’m not sure what you class as ‘doing nothing wrong’, but as I read the situation I found you out of bounds, after lights out, with cigarettes, smelling of alcohol,’ (oh God she though he’s noticed), ‘half undressed, with someone who is not a member of the School, who you had brought into the building without permission. That’s quite a bit wrong, as I see it.’

‘Please….’ Rachel could feel herself on the verge of tears. ‘Please… don’t send me to the Headmaster.’

Simon paused.

‘Oh don’t worry. I won’t. I can think of far more effective ways of dealing with this.’

‘Like… like what?’

He hesitated again. He was enjoying this, she could tell. ‘Have you ever been caned, Miss Fox?’

‘WHAT?’

‘I said, have you ever been caned?’

No. No. He couldn’t. He couldn’t be serious. ‘No, Simon, please, don’t be silly.’

‘Miss Fox, I am not being silly. As you well know, the Head Prefect has the authority to use corporal punishment on pupils on occasions where he feels it to be appropriate. And on this occasion, I feel it to be appropriate.’

‘You can’t…. No. I mean, that’s only for the boys – you can’t do that to the sixth-form girls.’

‘Can’t I? I seem to remember noticing that in the school rules. In fact, I remember noticing it quite clearly. ‘Authority to use corporal punishment on pupils’. Nothing about ‘except girls’.’

She studied him carefully, through a mist of tears. ‘But that must have been before they let girls into the school. Look, Simon. I know we split up… but you don’t have to be silly about this.’

‘The fact that we went out with one another has nothing to do with it. I’m merely following the rules. Being kind to you, in fact: if I sent you to the Head you’d get caned and then expelled for this, and you wouldn’t want that two months before A Levels.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ll see you outside the prefects’ room at 4.30pm tomorrow. Don’t be late. And now it’s time you went to bed.’

Simon turned sharply, and walked away, hoping that Rachel could not see the grin that was crossing his face. He could hardly believe his luck. He was still bitter about the way she had finished with him just before Christmas. After six months as a couple, it surely hadn’t been unreasonable of him to want more than just a few kisses, no matter how passionate they had been. And yet she rebuffed his every advance, steering his straying hands away whenever they ended up in an embrace. And as for sleeping together – well, that had been well and truly off tthe agenda. And then the big argument about it, and Rachel telling him that she’d had enough of him, that he was boring her, that she didn’t like the way he pawed at her all the time. Frigid little cow. And yet there she’d been tonight, as he did his usual patrol of the school buildings before going to bed, hiding away furtively with some local lad and her blouse half-way off. Well, he thought, tomorrow he’d show her who was boss.

As for Rachel, she felt like she was in a daze as she stood and watched Simon stride off. This was just too awful. No, it wasn’t just awful; it just wasn’t acceptable. He couldn’t do this to her.

Could he?

She walked slowly back to the dormitory that she shared with three other girls. And the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that Simon would indeed try to go through with his threats, and the more worried she became…

–

The events of that following afternoon will long be etched in the memory of those who were involved.

4.27pm… Rachel arrives outside the prefects’ room, shaking, scarcely able to believe that this is happening to her. She stands outside the door, nervously, several younger boys looking surprised to see one of the senior girls waiting in line for the prefects.

Five minutes pass, and then the door swings open. Peter Corrigan, one of the other prefects, beckons Rachel inside. She steps inside to see two of the other prefects talking to Simon.

Simon and the three others sit down in their armchairs, telling Rachel to stand in front of them while they agree her punishment. Simon picks up a large leather-bound book, and tells Rachel that, as required under the school rules, he is going to record her beating in the Discipline Log, and that it will be witnessed by the other prefects. She hangs her head in shame, and increasing fear, as he lists out her offences.

‘Firstly, visiting a local pub in term-time without permission. Three strokes. Secondly, bringing an unregistered visitor onto School premises. Two strokes. Thirdly, smoking. Three strokes. Fourthly, being out of bounds, after lights out. Four strokes. And given your state of dischevellement when I walked into the room last night, I am minded to add a fifth punishment for engaging in sexual activity on school premises. But then I know you are not that kind of girl, Rachel, don’t I?’ He laughed. ‘So then. Three – four five – six seven eight – nine ten eeleven twelve. Twelve strokes. Have you anything to say before we start?’ He stood up, and started to remove his gown and jacket.

This was unreal… so awful. ‘Simon, PLEASE. You can’t do this to me.’

‘Well I’m afraid I can, and I will. So let’s get on with it, shall we? I can’t hang around all day. Put your jacket and skirt over the arm of that chair.’

‘What?’

‘I said, put your jacket and skirt over the arm of that chair.’

‘But you can’t……’

‘NOW.’

Still she hesitates.

‘Rachel.’ He sounds threatening. ‘I said now, and I mean now. One second more and I will take you to the Head, and believe you me he’ll give you twice as many strokes and expel you into the bargain. So get on with it.’

She slips out of her jacket, and – terrified now – kicks off her shoes, undoes the button on her skirt, and unzips the side, letting it fall to the floor. She picks the garments up and lays them over the side of the armchair, noting the others watching her every move.

You could cut the tension in the air with a knife.

Simon walks over to the cupboard in the corner of the room. Rachel’s eyes follow him, and watch as he opens it, and pulls out a cane. He turns to face her, holding its curved handle, and she watches aghast as he flexes the rod in his hands.

‘I’d like you to stand over by the fireplace, pull down your knickers, and bend over and touch your toes.’

‘WHAT?’

‘I said, stand by the fireplace, take down your knickers, and touch your toes. Which bit of that couldn’t you follow?’

‘But.. you can’t ask me to undress like this.’

He looks her in the eye. ‘I think you misunderstand. I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.’

‘But Simon…’

‘My dear, the Head Prefect always canes on the bare. Now get in position and take them off, before I have to do it for you.’

Rachel walks over towards the old stone fireplace. Carefully, making sure she is facing away from Simon and the other three prefects, she reaches her hands under the elastic, and slides her knickers downwards her knees. Her lips tremble, as she fights back the tears. She bends forward, and reaches her fingertips down towards her toes, legs tight together.

She feels Simon walking up behind her. She feels so alone, so vulnerable. Everything around seems very silent.

Simon looks at her, taking in her partial nudity, remembering how she had always rejected his advances in the past. He would show her. This was going to teach her not to reject him. God, was he going to make this a hard flogging.

He outlines the rules. ‘Miss Fox. I am going to give you twelve strokes of the cane. You are not to cry out, or to flinch, and if you do I will – at my discretion – decide not to count tthe stroke in question. And you should count each stroke aloud after I have delivered it. Do I make myself clear?’

Quietly, feebly: ‘Yes.’

He pauses, flexing the cane in his hands, allowing the sense of dread anticipation to rise. He moves closer now, behind her and to her left, and lifts his right arm high, holding the cane in the air, pausing, and then cracks it down with all his might, tracing an arc with it so as it lands perfectly, straight across the centre of her buttocks, cracking against her pale skin.

He pulls the cane away, hearing Rachel’s sharp intake of breath, and pitiful cry: ‘Owwwwwwww.’ She half sobs, as the unbelievable pain starts to radiate across her buttocks along the line that the rod has marked. She takes a sharp breath in, and remembering just in time, whispers: ‘One.’

Simon pauses, letting the full impact of the stroke take effect, then whips the stick down on her again, just below the previous stroke. Quickly this time, she counts: ‘Two’, uttering the word almost before the pain has hit her, before it has started to burn its way out along its path.

He takes in the two parallel, red lines, watching as they rise up angrily. Again he pauses: ten seconds, fifteen maybe. And delivers the third stroke, low down, right at the bottom of Rachel’s buttocks, almost on her thighs. She howls: ‘AAAAAAA,’ and then he hears her breathing in and out, deeply, trying to find a way to cope with the agony. Almost inaudibly: ‘Three’.

The fourth stroke, landing higher up, has the same effect. CRACK! A little scream. The soft, quiet counting of the stroke. Simon beginning to be impressed with how she is bearing up to the thrashing. Rachel desperately wanting not to give in, not to jump up, not to dissolve uncontrollably into tears: not let him win.

And then the fifth. WHACK. Right on top of the previous stroke, just as the fire from that had reached its peak and begun to level out, re-igniting the pain, the burning. She feels herself instinctively start to straighten up, to reach for her buttocks, but just in time controls herself and leans back down. ‘Five.’

Noting the reaction, Simon lines the rod up carefully. He waits, watching Rachel control herself, steel herself for the next blow. And just as she seems calm, prepared, he brings the cane down again for a third consecutive time on the same line. ‘Noooooooo.’ She starts to sob now, the pain unbelievable, scarcely able to bear it any more. ‘S..s…six.’

Simon notices how her feet have slowly moved apart, as she tries to balance against the blows, all attempts at modesty now forgotten. He looks round, to see the other prefects smiling at him, drinking in the view. He slides the tip of the cane against the inside of her thigh, and moves it slowly upwards to rest between her legs, tapping it gently up and down, pushing it against her. ‘Half way through, Miss Fox, you’re doing well.’ She is sobbing audibly now, the pain and the shame mixing into utter humiliation. She tries to focus her mind: only one minute, just one minute to survive, then it will be over.

The next stroke is hard, fast, low down. Rachel gasps, counts seven, And then the eighth, following quickly, and the ninth, and before she even has time to realise, the cane is thwacking down on her again, even harder, and as she gasps in shock the next stripe is applied. An in utter agony, she shoots to her feet, unable to stand it any more, her hands reaching back to clutch her burning wealed buttocks, as the tears flow down her face.

Simon watches her, a small smile flickering across his face as he notes his small victory, how she had not been able to withstand the punishment. ‘I think you’d better bend down again, Miss Fox. And that last one doesn’t count, so I guess we’re still on nine.’

Carefully, she leans forward, gingerly reaching down towards her toes. She feels his eyes on her, watching, pausing, letting her settle down. Then the next stroke, low down again, agonising. ‘Ten.’

Again a pause. A long one, twenty seconds maybe. She closes her eyes. THWACK! It takes all of her strength, all of her willpower not to stand up. ‘Eleven.’

And she looks back between her legs, and sees him walking back, then turning and lifting the stick high and sauntering forward and AAAAAARGH delivering the final stroke with all his might. She clutches at her ankles, holding herself in position, desperate not to flinch, and cries out ‘TWELVE’. Twelve, finished, all over.

She hears Simon’s voice, distant. ‘You may get dressed.’ And she stretches up, and pulls her knickers up slowly, and then turns towards the chair where her skirt has been lying, and steps back into it, the pain almost unbearable still, and wipes her tears from her eyes, and pulls on her blazer, and all the time Simon and the other three are watching her, lapping up her pain and her misery.

‘You may go.’ And she looks at Simon, and walks towards the door, and he walks over to it with her and reaches for the handle, but just before he does so he puts his hand on her shoulder and softly, gently squeezes it and she hears him tell her kindly, ‘You were so brave.’

And then it’s out into the corridor, past the crowd of kids at the door of the prefects’ room, some of whom have obviously heard what has happened, and ignoring their jeers and pushing through them she sets off through the corridors, then up the stairs back into her room and collapses on the bed, her roommates gathering round her to hug her and comfort her and make her feel loved.

–

She undressed and climbed under the duvet. She must have fallen asleep – a restless sleep, her mind churning overr the afternoon’s events, her backside throbbing. Thinking about Simon, and the beating, and about his hand on her shoulder as she had left. About how much she still liked him, even after what had happened.

And then she woke with a start, as the dorm door opened. And looked up… to see Simon peering round the door, no longer in his prefect’s gown but in jeans and his first-team rugby shirt. She reached out and flicked on her bedside light – 7.15. The others must be at dinner.

He closed the door behind him. She drew the duvet round her, as he walked over and perched himself on the side of her bed. They looked at one another, neither speaking, then both at the same time… ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Are you OK, Rach?’

She felt the tears welling up again. She nodded. ‘I was so stupid.’

Still clutching the duvet, and moving carefully so as not to re-ignite the pain, she shuffled round so her head lay next to his leg. He put a hand down on her face, cool, soft.

She kissed it.

And then pulled back, shocked at what she had done.

‘I still care about you, Rach.’

She looked at him, surprised. ‘And me about you. I’ve missed you.’

He laughed. ‘Although I guess we’ve got a funny way of showing it! How are you feeling?’

‘Sore.’

‘I’m not surprised. I mean, my arm’s sore, so God knows what your backside must be like.’

He leant down and kissed her forehead, and she reached her hands around the back of his head, and pulled his mouth down to her again, kissing him long and passionately.

They pulled apart, and Rachel suddenly had a thought. ‘What if someone comes in?’ Holding the duvet round her, she swung herself out of bed and went over to the door, turning the key in the lock, making a decision for herself as she did so. She turned round, and walked back towards Simon, and as she did so she let the duvet fall towards the floor, exposing herself to his gaze. He stood up, and moved towards her, placing his hands on her shoulders and kissing her: ‘You’re so beautiful, Rach.’

She reached her hands under his rugby shirt, and lifted it up, over his heads, pressing her bare breasts against him. And then moved her hands down to his jeans, opening the buttons, pulling them downwards, taking his hardening penis in her hands. They kissed again, rubbing their bodies against one another, and then Simon pulled free and moved towards the bed, taking off his jeans as he went. He picked up her pillow and laid it on the middle of the bed, and taking her by the hand pulled her gently towards the bed, and laid her down, her bruised buttocks resting on the soft pillow, as his head dived between her legs. Rachel reached down and held him to her, moaning as the pleasure flowed through her body. She shuddered with pleasure as he moved up and started to rub his cock against her now wet opening, backwards and forwards over her, making her as wet as he could before he leant upwards and pushed himself in. She gasped as he entered, a moment of surprise and then such wonderful new sensations washing over her, and then lay back as he slid himself fully in. She felt his hands slide under her, cradling her buttocks as he rode her, thrusting himself onto her willng body, and then soon – oh so soon – felt him pull back out as he came over her tummy.

And then they started to hear footsteps outside, people obviously starting to emerge from dinner, and so quickly got to their feet and pulled their clothes back on. Rachel threw the duvet over the bed, turning the pillow over and moving it back to its rightful place, and then unlocked the door.

And with a last, lingering kiss, Simon slipped out of the room…

You have been standing there for long enough, I feel. Long enough to contemplate. To anticipate. To allow those dreams to dive into nightmares and back again. Those hopes to mingle with your undoubted fears.

I walk over to you, standing close behind, my hands on your hips. I whisper in your ear, my breath warm against your skin. “So this time it’s not a game. Not like last time. This time you already know what it feels like to be disciplined. Albeit gently. And yet you have persisted with your behaviour. Do you understand me?”

You nod, the long, stern lecture having made its impression on your mind in the same way that they cane shortly will on your behind. Imprinted itself. Left its mark.

And my hand reaches to your side. Unbuttons your skirt, slides down the zipper. Allows the garment to fall, crumpled, to the floor.

My fingers entwine themselves in the elastic of your panties, sliding underneath against your bare, cool skin. Then I pull away, walk to the armchair and sit down. “Turn around.”

You obey. Your face still defiant, despite the tears from the earlier lecture still staining your face.

I point at your panties. “You will be flogged on the bare. Please get ready.”

I sit and observe. And where do you look? Downcast, at the floor, as you hesitate, then slowly, nervously remove the garment, stripping yourself to my gaze. Before you place your hands firmly back on your head, and meet my eyes, defiant.

I stand, taking the cane from the bed. Stand close to you, our faces almost touching. Each of us, breathing the other’s anticipation. I gesture to the space in front of the window: “Now.”

And you pause again, before walking past me, head held high, but trembling. Remembering my earlier instructions, you stand with your legs apart, and lean yourself forward. Hands touching toes. The traditional pose; that space into which so many have gone before.

I step past you, and draw the curtains. “Your offences may have been committed in public. But perhaps we should deal with your punishment in private.” And then, standing in front of you, looking down at your doubled-up body, I lean gently forward; silently touching your hair, stroking the back of your neck.

You murmur a quiet, “I’m sorry, sir,” as I walk round to my position. I don’t respond. At least, not verbally; expressing my response instead with that first, biting whack of the rod. Making you gasp, then howl. Perhaps you hadn’t thought I was serious when I’d told you that your previous punishment had been gentle. Perhaps you hadn’t believed me when I told you how much more intense the strokes would be when they fell on bare flesh, not over your clothes. Perhaps you hadn’t, really, thought I would come back.

And having told you that you would experience a true caning, would understand why the instrument is so respected and so feared, I feel that I owe a duty to you – and to the cane itself – not to compromise.

WHACK. Not to compromise the strength of the strokes. WHACK. Not even as I watch your pale skin stripe, and mark. WHACK. Not even as I hear you yelp and tell you, firmly, to keep silent.

WHACK. Not even as you mutter your apologies, beg me to stop as I promise to continue. WHACK as I know that your begging hides that mix, as you plead for the flogging to relent and yet…. WHACK…. need to be punished.

WHACK. WHACK. WHACK. As I layer three harsh strokes on top of each other, your tears now flowing freely. Crying, sobbing, pleading.

Has the punishment taken you far enough? Too far? I lay down the cane, and run my fingers over your hot, bruised buttocks, tracing the red ridges from one side to the other. Praise you for your bravery. Hear you squeal, at the intense agony of my touch. And as my fingers dance around your skin, hear you gasp, too, in a different way.

I take the cane once more. Close behind you now, I run its tip against the inside of your thigh, and tap it slowly backwards and forwards, from side-to-side. The metronome continues, yet sliding imperceivably higher, then higher still, then higher still. Higher to the point where there is no place for it to slide from side-to-side; only to stop, and press, and then take up its rhythm once more, only this time up and down, softly and not so softly, gentle and yet hard.

“Do you feel properly punished,” I ask, your “Yes” in response part confirmation, part sigh, part shudder. And I draw back, measuring the cane once more, low down, and whip it across you so hard, yet so tenderly. Yet even as you cry out, I throw away the rod, my fingertips once more caressing, my voice re-assuring.

And as I press gently against your stripes, then stroke and comfort, then place my hands firmly on your hips, I ask clearly: “And do you know what needs to happen next?”

“Yes. Please.”

And my hands slide around your front. Lifting you upwards. Letting you press your back against me. Letting you feel me.

And I turn you around, cup your face in my hands. Kiss you.

Lead you over to the bed. And inflict on your body a pleasure even more exquisite than the pain that had gone before.

It had hurt – horribly, each of the six carefully-executed strokes quite simply agonising. Her classmates had watched in silence: wincing as he’d punished her, watching the neat red lines tracing their lesson across her pale skin whilst she’d stretched, tight, over his desk.

She’d walked – ashamed, hurting – to the back of the classroom, pausing to summon up the courage to lower her bottom onto the hard wooden chair. She so wanted to cry, but knew that her tears must be kept for later, in private – after she’d presented the punishment slip to her doubtless-disapproving housemaster, to be added to her school record.

Millie, next to her, squeezed her hand. Other girls flicked supportive glances her way, silently mouthing their are-you-OKs. A note passed surreptitiously from desk to desk – Erin, her best friend, seated at the front of the class, offering her condolences and her love: “My darling Poppy. That looked awful. He was a right bastard: you were so brave. Hugs later. You alright? xxx”

“Yeah. Fine. Not as bad as it looked. Didn’t hurt much. Old fool must be losing his touch! xxx” – a reckless reply, given the need to convey the folded paper back across the room. The master had spotted the reply winging its ill-fated way almost as soon as it had left the punished girl’s grasp; he’d monitored its progress, choosing his moment to pounce.

He unfolded the missive; read the correspondence slowly to himself, shook his head as if in sorrow – and beckoned Erin to stand.

“I simply won’t tolerate that sort of comment.”

“Sorry, sir.” Meaning it, her whispered apology tinged with dread.

He turned, picked up the cane. “I think you know the procedure…”

“Please…?” But he merely rapped the desk with the rattan and waited. She stepped forward, paused, looked at him in the vain hope of a last-minute reprieve – and then lowered her knickers, lifted her skirt and leant forward.

Poppy averted her eyes as her friend was punished. Punished! For the very act of friendship. She bit her lip, counting the six, knowing how Erin – far less used to the taste of the rod – must be suffering. And then her friend was being dismissed, the master’s hastily-scribbled report of her strokes clutched in her trembling hands, and he could turn his attention to unfinished business.

“Poppy Reynolds.”

“Sir…?” He couldn’t… He wouldn’t…

“Stand when I’m talking to you, young lady!”

“Yes, sir.” She rose to her feet, heart pounding at the realisation that standing was merely a prelude to another long, lonely march to the front of the classroom.

“You’ve just seen what happens to pupils who insult me. And this time, I shall make sure it hurts. Come out here and bend over, and we’ll see whether the old fool can get his touch back…”

In memory of Alex Birch

Interruptions to class were rare, as if the teacher’s chamber was somehow sacrosanct: “do not disturb” the abiding motto. And the girls knew by now that those occasional knocks at the door – once, twice a term? – were inevitably harbingers of doom, announcing the arrival of a prefect with a message of imminent discomfort for one of their number.

The routine was the same: “My apologies, but Mr. ……. asked me to deliver an urgent message.” And the crisp envelope would be passed over to the teacher; the audience would hang on tenterhooks as if watching some awards ceremony in reverse – no winner of a statuette being revealed here, but rather the pronouncement of which girl was destined to face a most uncomfortable encounter.

And the teacher would shake his head solemnly, scanning the expectant, nervous faces. A pause for effect? A solemn revelation of the verdict: “It appears that Miss ….. is required in her Housemaster’s study.”

Sometimes the girl would be expecting it: all eyes would have swivelled to her as the prefect entered the room. So it was true? And he was going to cane her? And she’d be nervously tidying the pile of books on her desk even before her name echoed through the room, any vain hope extinguished by the sound of the knocks.

And on other occasions?

The moment of disbelief. Did he say me? The questions – what for, or (maybe) how did he know? The burning cheeks, embarrassed at the shocked stares of her classmates. Legs turning to stone, scarcely able to carry her to the door.

That long, long walk along the empty corridors, practising her excuses and her pleas for mercy, trying not to contemplate what would happen were they to prove unsuccessful.

“Miss Barlow.”

Which rather took Jennifer aback, that Friday morning, then shocked her to the core as she realised what must have happened.

–

He usually offered girls a seat, as they discussed their report cards or their options for classes the following year. Made them feel welcome, at home, relaxed.

Not today. Today he’d left her standing, as he played with the letter in his hands.

“So I thought that I should perhaps call your father. Check with him that you had the ‘flu yesterday, necessitating a day off school but resulting in a most miraculous restoration of good health. Reassure myself that there’s nothing untoward going on.”

But a call wouldn’t reassure him. And Jenny didn’t want her father to know. Not now. Not ever.

“You don’t need to, sir. I mean, he’ll be in meetings…”

Her Housemaster raised an eyebrow.

She blustered on. “And he’ll just tell you that everything’s OK anyway, so I don’t see the need.”

“He will, will he?” He looked at the file on the desk. “531 7625.” Lifted the handset; started to punch in the numbers. Slowly, watching her reaction. Reading the digits as he went.

5

3

1

7

6

“No, sir.”

“No, sir? No what, sir?”

“No, he won’t tell you that he signed the letter, sir.”

“And why would that be, Miss Barlow?”

She covered her face in her hands. “Because he didn’t write it, sir.”

“I know he didn’t write it.”

“Sir?” Puzzled.

“I know he didn’t sign it, because I have several copies of his handwriting in your file, none of which matches this particular document. And I can imagine why he didn’t sign it, because Mr. McKelvey saw you leaving the pub on Wednesday evening being propped up by two of your friends, in a state of what he described as ‘total inebriation’.”

He shook his head. “Not even the best medicines deal with the flu that quickly, Miss Barlow. So do tell me the truth, for a change.”

That smarted. “For a change?” She was a truthful girl; honest; trustworthy. Usually.

“I wasn’t feeling well, sir. I’d been up most of the night. And I didn’t want my father to know I’d been to the pub.”

“But you’re eighteen? He can’t stop you.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. But he doesn’t like me going.” Doesn’t like? Yes, that would be one (very understated) way of putting it.

“So you thought you would blame your hangover on the ’flu, and forge his handwriting?”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“I’m sure.” He stood; she always forget how tall he was. “Well, let’s get this dealt with. Bend over and touch your toes.”

Just like that? So sudden? She’d imagined some long drawn-out discussion. Forms to complete, lengthy lectures. An explanation of the procedure. A right of appeal. And yet now her fingers were brushing the cold black leather, the carpet was looming large, he was already walking behind her, and…

“Four strokes of the cane for missing a day’s school in such disgraceful circumstances.” And the first cut down on her before she’d really absorbed what he’d been saying. But she most certainly absorbed his message: not like the familiar belt, but striping a line across her, burning, engulfing her backside with pain.

And somehow, from the tales the other girls had told, she imagined the process taking forever. Long pauses; stern words. But the second stroke landed, and then the third, and before she knew it he was telling her to stand, and she was clutching her behind. And that was the other thing she’d never imagined: that it could hurt so badly.

Wiping away a tear, she apologised.

“The best apology will be if you learn from the experience, Miss Barlow,” came the retort as he returned the cane to its home beside his filing cabinet.

“Yes, sir, I will.”

“Now, Miss Barlow, we have a rule here with which you may be familiar that no girl may receive more than six strokes of the cane in any given day. So although we have dealt with your unauthorised absence, we will have to hold over punishing you for forging your note until Monday. Please report to me at morning break. And I should warn you that girls who lie are always punished on the bare.”

Monday? Bare? “But sir….”

“Thank you, Miss Barlow, that will be all.” And he reached into his drawer, pulled out a sheaf of marking, and studiously ignored her until she left.

–

The other girls were kind, even if she found their curiosity – the lowering of her knickers in the bathroom, the admiration of her stripes – to be intensely humiliating. But it was the done thing – the other girls’ perceived badge of bravery, her badge of shame. They hugged, cuddled, provided comforting chocolate, folded spare school sweaters for her to sit on for the afternoon.

But they couldn’t know about Monday.

They went shopping together on Saturday: Zara, H&M, Top Shop, Pizza Hut. They still hugged, smiled, supported.

But they couldn’t know about Monday.

They went to the cinema on Sunday. She couldn’t concentrate. They’d already forgotten.

And they couldn’t know about Monday.

Tomorrow…

Today…

A magnetic force held her back from entering the school gates; somehow she conquered it.

The Headmaster read out his customary list in the start-of-the-week assembly. Her name included, placed on public record: one of three convicts to have received the punishment of the court. No secrets here; no hiding. (And if one of them were to mention it to parents, and said parents were to tell her father…? Please, no…)

Mrs Thomas noticed her absent-mindedness in French.

Mr Chisolm commented on her lack of concentration in Maths.

Dr Tudor expressed disappointment at her wrong answers in History.

But they couldn’t know about morning break.

That was between her, and her Housemaster. He wasn’t there when she arrived; the seconds turned to minutes, the minutes turned to hours before he joined her and let her in. “Ah, Miss Barlow. Our unfinished business. I don’t think we have anything further to discuss, do we? Shall we get this over with?”

And no, they didn’t. Other than his instruction, this time, to remove her knickers and lift her skirt before bending over. His reminder that dishonesty was something of which he greatly disapproved, and his proclamation that “Six strokes is the only punishment that can be deemed appropriate in the circumstances.”

She could take them, though. She’d spend the weekend conquering the demons of her memories of Friday’s strokes; the stripes were still there, but the pain hadn’t been that bad, had it? Had it? Try and believe it, Jenny; that way you’ll get through.

And, as it turned out, they hadn’t been that bad. Not compared to these. The very first stroke brought tears to her eyes; excruciating, agonising, astonishing. By the third, she was crying. Not that that made him ease up, each blow in the sequence seemingly harder than its predecessor, until a sixth that made her cry out at the top of her voice.

He bade her adjust her uniform. “Let’s hope we don’t have to repeat this, Miss Barlow.” And this time, a gentle squeeze of her shoulder as he showed her out of the door, as if trying to comfort her to ease all of the discomfort he had just inflicted.

Her friends asked where she’d been. Noticed, despite the basin of cold water liberally applied to her face, that she’d been crying. But they couldn’t know; she couldn’t bear it.

At least, not until the following Monday. When she walked into assembly; when the Headmaster took the rostrum. When he started to read out the weekly roll of dishonour. When her name came first…

It had been two years.

Two years since she had last been summoned to the Headmaster’s office.

Two years since…

She tried to block it out of her mind.

Two years since he’d…

…since he’d punished her.

She knew from the other girls that she’d got off lightly. They’d told her. Teased her. ‘Cry baby Steph,’ they’d taunted, as she’d returned to the classroom, tear-stained and hurt, no longer the perfect angel who’d never been in trouble.

Only three strokes.

Only.

Yet every one of them was imprinted on her mind even more firmly now than it had been then, the shame and pain of each blow still fresh, still smarting.

She tried to picture what would be going on right now, behind that heavy door. How he’d be lecturing Susan, reaching for his cane, instructing her as to how to position herself for what was to come.

Think of something else. Think of the holidays. Think of walking along the river.

Think of Susan.

No… think of playing with the kittens at home. That essay she had to write.

Think of how Susan must be feeling now. Of how scared she’d been as they’d walked, together, from the classroom to his office. Knowing how they’d been caught, and what would await them. Think of how unconvincing Steph’s reassurances must have seemed.

Think of the book she had read last night. Of the film she was due to go and see tonight. Think of the…

Steph glanced at her watch. Susan had been in there nearly five minutes. Enough time, surely? Any moment now…

She straightened her tie. Stood up straight, smart, presentable.

This couldn’t be happening again. How could she have been so stupid? After last time.

Was it worse, knowing what was to come? The terror of the unknown, mixed with the hope that it couldn’t be *that* bad? Or the certainty born out of painful experience, that it could indeed be that bad. Worse.

And then the door was open, and a red-faced Susan was in front of her, avoiding eye contact, scarcely able to utter the ‘He asked you to go in.’

And in a whirl, she was inside, and the door was closed, and he was sitting in his armchair, the cane on his desk (if anything looking more fearsome than in her memories), the sunlight flooding into the room.

And she stood, arms by her side. Waiting for him to begin.

He looked at her, his gaze drawing her eyes to his. ‘You’ve been to my study before, Stephanie, I seem to recall.’

‘Yes, Sir.’ Trying to stay calm, trying to be brave.

‘When was that?’

‘Two years ago, Sir.’ The sixteenth of June, to be precise, at 10.15 in the morning.

‘Mmmm.’ The Headmaster looked over at his bookcase, and pointed to a set of leather-bound volumes. That set. In which her name had been inscribed, a record for all time.

‘Bring me the one for two years ago.’

Nervously, she looked along the row, finding the right book and passing it to him, hands trembling.

‘Any idea when exactly?’

‘At the start of the summer term, Sir.’

He flicked over the pages, and ran his finger down the list of names. ‘Yes, indeed. I remember now.’ (Did he, she wondered? Did he really remember, as she remembered?). ‘And yet here you are again, back here, if my records are correct, for precisely the same offence?’

She sniffed, and hung her head. ‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Your friend told me that it was her idea to leave the school premises this lunchtime to go shopping. Is that true?’7

Thank you, Susan. Thank you. ‘It… it sort of was.’

‘Sort of?’

‘Well…’ What could she say? What if she disagreed with Susan’s version of events? ‘Well, we were both talking about this new CD that was out today, and we kind of looked at one another and both… Well, I mean…’

He paused, watching her. ‘And what did I tell you last time you played truant, when we had our… conversation… up here?’

She bit her lip, unable to find the words.

He prompted her, firmly. ‘I’m surprised you don’t remember.’

‘I do remember, Sir, really I do, and I know that it was stupid and….’ Her voice trailed off. And please don’t cane me, Sir, she wanted to say. Please don’t make me bend over. Please don’t lecture me, and tell my parents, and…. I’ll be a good girl, really I will.

‘You’re a bright lass, Steph. One of the best. And I so dislike it when the nice girls in the school end up before me like this. When they let themselves down. Do you appreciate that?’

She nodded, resisting the momentary urge to tell him that if he disliked it so much, he could stop and let her go.

He walked around the desk, and stood in front of her, addressing her softly. ‘But you know that we have rules, which are designed to make the school a safe and happy place. And that it’s my duty as Headmaster, no matter how difficult it may be at times, to have to deal with those who infringe the rules.’

Very quiet now: ‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And that Susan has taken her punishment, and I must discipline you as well?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Get on with, please, and put me out of my misery.

Keep talking, please, don’t make me bend over.

The Headmaster turned, and picked up the cane. ‘Let’s get this over with, shall we? Hang your blazer neatly on the door, remove your panties and skirt, and bend over the desk. You know the routine, I’m sure.’

But… but… surely… ‘But Sir, I was allowed to keep my panties on last time.’

‘And you are now in the Sixth Form, my dear girl, and I am surprised you’re not familiar with the school rules. We cane sixth-formers on the bare. As they should know better.’

As if it could be *worse* than last time. As it that were possible.

Meekly, shocked, she followed his instructions. Bared herself, thankful that he politely averted his gaze. He stepped behind her, the two of them dancing towards their respective positions as she moved towards the desk. She leant forwards, the wood cold against her thighs, her hands folded neatly on her back as he had taught her last time.

He measured the cane across her, reminding her how it would stripe her when he whipped it down. ‘Since the three strokes that I gave you last time were clearly insufficient to prevent a repetition of your truancy, I shall be giving you the full six this time.’

‘But I promise…’

‘You said that last time, Steph.’

And he drew the rod back, and whipped it down, and she howled. Howled with the unbearable pain. Howled at the humiliation. Howled in disbelief that this could be happening again. Howled in fear at the fact that there were five more to follow.

She had to be brave. WHACK.

Had to be grown-up.

Long pause.

THWACK.

Biting her lip, feeling the tears welling up. Trying to blank her mind – as if that were possible as the cane descended once more against her, a fourth stroke even more painful than its predecessors.

Hear his voice, distant, telling her that there were only two more to go, that she should brace herself and be brave.

Feeling the rod tap gently, then swish down once more, directly overlaying the previous stroke and taking her pain levels new heights… or depths…

And only one to go, and then it would be over, and she could escape, and hide, and see Susan, and…

Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

And the last was the worst. As it had been last time. As she guessed it might always be. A guess she hoped, feared, knew that she would never have to validate in a repeat visit.

He was kind, afterwards. As he had been last time. Turning away as she dressed, fingers shaking as she struggled to make herself presentable, whilst wiping away the tears. Filling in the punishment record quickly, recounting the details of the caning that he had just inflicted: the date, her name, her class, the number of strokes. The offence. (How could she have been so stupid? How could the day have turned out so different, so much worse than she could have feared in her worst nightmare the previous night?)

And then he told her that he was confident that she would not be returning. That he hoped that she would learn, and remember, and see through the rest of the term without incident.

That she should go directly to her classroom, and rejoin her lesson.

That it was over.

A silly game, that was all: merely a little humour to punctuate the pomposity of the weekly Headmaster’s Assembly. As he stood before them in his black-cloaked finery, like some oversized bad-tempered raven, Mr Harrington Spencer – Justice of the Peace, MA(Oxon) and never forget the Oxon – peered over his spectacles at the girls seated below, and offered up his usual recipe of ridiculous regulations and patronising platitudes.

Never a man to suffer disrespect gladly, the interruption of his monologue by the tinkling of a mobile phone did not, as one might imagine, go down well. His evil gaze scanned the rows of Mitchell’s, the house whose girls sat in the front corner of the hall, intent on identifying the culprit. “Would the girl responsible please…”

The “…identify herself” section of his instruction went unheard, as the second call of the day rang out somewhere in the vicinity of Pearson’s, the house a little further to the left – immediately echoed by a shrill tone from Dean’s, and then from every quarter of the room a cacophony of incoming calls drowned out only by the laughter of the assembled girls, delighting in their carefully planned rebellion.

“Stop it… stop it… STOP IT NOW!” Not the most authoritative public statement from the master of all he was supposed to survey – the rising note of panic in his voice merely adding to the hysteria. Silence, he therefore determined, was the only option – standing, arms folded, until the revolution died down and calm slowly returned to his domain, punctuated only by the occasional uncontrolled giggle.

“How very… enterprising of you all,” he finally commented. “No doubt the shares of the telephone companies will be soaring on the stock exchange this morning with all of their extra revenue.” Had he expected laughter in response to his attempted witticism, he’d have been sorely disappointed. “And maybe those of you who do have mobiles might use them at morning break to inform their parents that the entire school will be held back for thirty minutes this evening. You will sit here in silence, and a detention will be placed on each of your school records. Oh, and please do turn off your phones: the owner of the next one to ring will be caned.”

He waited for a minute, as girls fumbled in blazer pockets to ensure their personal safety, and then continued: “Now, where were we? Ah yes: we were about to sing hymn number 184.”

You knew, even then, that it was bound to happen. Fate, dragging one of their number towards the abyss, chose its moment carefully after a few minutes of telephonic silence, pouncing just as the head prefect was reciting the list of the week’s academic awards: “A distinction to Sarah Crawley of Upper Four A in English, a merit to…”

To whom was drowned out by the phone’s chimes, quickly silenced as three hundred pairs of eyes telescoped in on the middle right-hand side of the hall.

“Would the girl whose phone just rang please stand.”

I mean, would you? Knowing the consequences?

“I’m waiting…”

And would be doing so for a long time, it seemed.

“…and if the girl responsible is too cowardly to own up, then the whole of her house will stay behind in detention for thirty minutes every night next week, in addition to our appointment this evening.”

So, slowly, unsteadily, she rose to her feet, red-faced and trembling. Gasps from those closest; queries from those furthest away, half-rising to their feet to get a clearer view of the condemned: “Who is it?” “Who was it?” “Elizabeth?” “Can’t be!” “Elizabeth Linley!” “OMG…!”

“Miss Linley. I’m really rather surprised, and not a little disappointed in you.” In a girl more used to the library than the detention room. In a girl whose elder sister had been head prefect just the year before. In a girl who, even as she stood amongst them, trembling hands held for comfort by her neighbours, looked as though she might be about to cry.

“Go and stand outside my study facing the wall, Miss Linley. I shall be with you in a few minutes’ time.”

She paused for a moment, as if too stunned to comprehend the order – then stumbled out of her row, half helped by and half falling over the girls that sat between her and the aisle, before beginning her long, oh-so-lonely walk. To the back of the hall, amidst stares both sympathetic and shocked. Out of the doors, swung open for her so politely and so flamboyantly by the deputy headmaster. And then entirely alone, along the deserted corridor to wait by the very final door, amidst the gloomy silence that fills a school when its pupils are otherwise engaged. To stand in the requisite spot, clenching and unclenching her fists; swallowing hard; biting her lip; shifting from foot to foot then remembering she should be still. And practising the lines for her negotiation.

She heard his footsteps, sharp against the stone floor, from the far end of the corridor – moments before the cacophony of the newly-released pupils followed as they emerged from the hall, frolicking and fighting their way back to their classrooms, the fate of their compatriot far from their minds. She stood straighter still, pressing her nose against the cold paintwork, not wanting to give him any cause for still graver disapproval. The butterflies in her stomach were careering into each other by now, drowned out only by her heart’s frantic drum beat.

He walked behind her – straight past, reaching for the door handle. “I shall see you in a moment, Miss Linley,” and the door closed firmly behind him. More time to wait, dragging it out: “Let me in to plead my innocence, to apologise for my mistake, to try to cling at whatever straws might save me”. Other girls were close by now, en route to their lessons – pointing, giggling nervously yet sharing wry amusement that such a girl would find herself in such a position. And then the door opened, and a disembodied voice boomed ominously from inside, begging no arguments: “Come in…”

She’d been into his office before, of course: when she’d come with her parents to be interviewed for a prized place in the school after doing so well in the entrance exams. When she’d come top of the year, two years ago and again last year: the headmaster did like to congratulate the high-performers in person. But then the chair had been facing his desk, ready for her to take a seat – not moved to the side. And his desktop had been devoid of the long, crook-handled cane which now took pride of place.

“Please, sir, I’m sorry…” He raised a hand to silence her, but her tongue was moving too fast: “I wasn’t part of the earlier stuff… It…”

Quietly, firmly, he interrupted: no negotiation broached here. “I won’t tolerate direct disobedience, Miss Linley, and I’d made myself very clear as to what would happen were another phone to ring. Now, I’d like you to remove your knickers, bend over in front of the desk, lift your skirt and then touch your toes.”

Flight? Fight more? She blinked, and made her silent resolution: “He’s right. I have no choice.” And, in a moment of dismayed clarity: “I deserve it.” Bracing herself, thinking of her big sister’s sterling achievements, not wanting to let her family down even more than she’d already done: “Please: let me brave enough to take it…”

And, to his surprise, she was. Most girls being punished for the first time tended to flinch, to stand, unable to take the shocking strokes. But Elizabeth? Goodness, but these were hard cuts – each parallel stripe delivered with a high backswing and a cruel flick of his wrist, the blow echoing around the room. Yet the girl stayed still, absorbing the shock and pain as if a veteran in this situation.

She was crying when she stood afterwards, as she adjusted her uniform: wiping the tears away with the back of her hand, as if she hoped he wouldn’t notice. But he did, of course – even if he’d keep his praise for her pluck for later, to share in the common room over morning coffee. For now, there was the final curt warning that she should, must learn from the experience and never repeat it, and the sharp dismissal: “I think you should be in Double History, isn’t that right? Don’t dally on your way. I shall check with Mr Franklin to make sure you reached his class on time.”

On time, that was, other than for leaning against the wall outside the girls’ changing room and finally letting herself dissolve. What had it been: a mere half hour to turn her from a paragon of apparent virtue to a girl whose record would forever be tarnished? The pain, too – oh, how it had hurt. Oh, how it still hurt – unimaginably, unbearably so.

And how it would hurt to knock on that door and walk in – ashamed – to that classroom, to the curious stares of her pupils; to field their questions, to try to shrug off their hugs (“because I’m OK, really I am”) and to make it through the day. Until she could run home and hide – and pray that her family would never find out…

“You may let go of her wrists. The house is well-guarded: she has no means of escape.”

The two men, in their black uniforms, released their grip, pushing the girl towards me. She fell to her knees, pleading in broken English: “Please, sir. Mercy…”

Mercy? I stood up and walked over to her, lifting her face roughly with my left hand as I slapped it, hard, with my right. “Mercy? After your behaviour?”

She was pretty, of that there was no doubt. My contacts had done well when they’d chosen her: spied her in the street, introduced themselves, offered her a break and the chance to earn her fortune. Or so she would have been told. Just the sort of girl that our visitors like – those select few permitted to pass behind the velvet curtain, into the back rooms of the casino, to take their pick and their pleasure.

“Where did you find her, Oleg?”

“At the airport, sir. Trying to buy a ticket.”

“A ticket, indeed?” I threw him a bunch of keys, and pointed to the locked drawers at the back of the room. “Would you fetch me her file?”

The manila envelope was located quickly, and passed to me. I tipped its contents onto my desk: a sheet detailing where and when my local contacts back in her home town had first found her; the signed contract to work as a waitress for the summer in one of my ‘bars’. And her passport, which I flourished before her: “So quite how did you propose to leave the country?”

She shook her head: “I don’t know…”

I turned to consult one other piece of paper, neatly typed. “You see, you owe me rather a lot of money, Valentina. Your air fare here; the visa fee; your board and lodgings. And your earnings so far have come nowhere near repaying me.”

“Please, sir… Mercy…?” Still some hope yet to be extinguished.

Grigory, the other of my men to have recaptured her, spoke up. “Sir, she also had money with her at the airport.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred.”

“And do we know where that came from?”

“There had been some cash taken from the desk in the casino, sir, on the evening she disappeared.”

“Ah. I see. Her predicament worsens with every turn.” I looked at the girl, still sobbing on the floor. “I think it’s time to teach her a lesson. Oleg: fetch the wooden chair from the corner and place it in the middle of the room. Grigory: you’ll find some lengths of rope in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet.”

As they turned, she ran. The door was firmly bolted. I smiled: she had character, this one. “Strip her, and tie her over the chair for her whipping.”

The girl struggled; Oleg grimaced as her teeth sank into his arm, but they were too strong for her – frail girl, ex-special forces soldiers. No contest, really.

They tore her dress as they removed it. She was naked underneath: one of my little rules at the casino. They bent her over the back of the chair, Grigory busying himself with the cords binding her ankles and wrists as his colleague held her down.

When they were done, I took the cane from the shelf on the wall. (Quite how an English gentleman came to be running a business like this, here, is a long story – but I do relish traditional methods for controlling my girls).

Her whimpers for mercy had given way to sobs by now – of fear, rather than the sobs of pain that would inevitably follow. I whisked the rattan through the air as I walked around her, then measured its length across her pale skin.

“I do not expect such conduct from my girls, and I assure you that you will be more compliant once I’ve dealt with you.” I lifted the cane high, cracked it down, and stepped back to watch the red stripe bursting into life. “So, we have some strokes for running away from the casino, when you had been clearly told that you were not to leave.”

The second stroke, low down. A loud cry; a second perfect red line. “And then there’s stealing money from me before you left.”

A pause, letting the pain sink in, before the third hard cut, followed quickly by the fourth. “And we need to consider the waste of my men’s time, trying to find you, and breaching your contract of employment with me, and the money you owe me for your expenses that you clearly had no intention of repaying.” Followed by a harsh fifth, a biting sixth.

I walked around her, and lifted her tearful face. “You see, there’s quite a lot we need to deal with. Never mind wanting to set an example to the other girls, when they see how you’ve been punished after you get back to the casino.”

And so, I continued. Six, delivered in quick succession, as she fought against her ties. Six, delivered slowly and purposefully, each given time to blaze its message home. And from then on, I stopped counting. Strokes fast, strokes slow. Strokes high then low, then tracing a repeating path along precisely the same line. Strokes gentle; mainly, strokes very, very hard.

Protests, pleas. Sobs. Silence, other than for her deep breathing as she tried to absorb the pain.

And then it was over, and I ordered the men to untie her and dress her, although the ripped dress offered her little protection. I returned the cane to the shelf, and her documents to the pack, before taking her jaw in my hand and lifting her eyes to meet mine.

“I doubt we’ll see you back here. I hope for your sake we won’t.”

She shook her head, and I turned to my men. “Take her back to the casino. Oh, and Oleg?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I did notice her bite you earlier.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you’d like to deal with that on the way back, do feel free to pull the van over somewhere quiet, and make use of her.”

“Thank you, sir.”

And with that, I sat back down at my desk and left them to take the girl back to work.

The beach in Normandy, warm sand beneath her feet, children’s laughter drifting through the still air.

The top floor of her favourite bookshop. Volumes piled chaotically, charitable donations waiting to inform, educate.

With Josh, walking alongside the river, not quite brave enough to thread arms and touch and kiss.

Sheltering from a summer shower, as she waited for the bus, her fellow travellers doubtless wondering why the quiet, smart girl at the front of the queue suddenly looked so panicked.

Awakening, at two in the morning. Tossing, turning, unable to drive the thoughts from her mind.

At every damned moment when she allowed her mind to wander, the thought crept up on her insidiously: ‘When I go back to school, I am going to be caned’.

She tried, of course, to banish the fears. He’d punished the others; she hadn’t even been there; they’d taken the blame. A whole summer had passed. He’d have written to her, surely? He’d have forgotten. That even if he remembered, she’d be able to talk her way out. That if… that if the worst came to pass, it couldn’t really be that bad. Other girls were caned; if they could take it, so could she.

But the very possibility… She’d lain in bed so often in the past, hearing the distant strokes from the Housemaster’s study, wondering: who, why? She’d seen sweet Helen in the Third Year, slipping back afterwards as unobtrusively as possible into the next bed in the dorm; she’d listened to her friend’s faint sobs, muffled into her pillow, and she’d seen her in the showers the following morning, striped and shamed.

And she’d read and re-read and re-read again the hand-written letter that Tess had posted to her – the pale blue paper now creased from its oh-so-regular handling. ‘Dearest Amy, Something awful happened. Maberley caught us drinking on the last night of term, and took us all downstairs and caned us. Oh Amy, it was awful. Thank goodness you weren’t there too.’

She’d filled in the details over the summer – a slow drip-feed, snippets gleaned from phone calls and e-mails and notes in pretty envelopes. The basic details were clear: the night after she’d left (exchange trip with French family: confusion over dates: permission reluctantly granted by irritated Housemaster), her friends had polished off the remnants of their secret stash of rum.

That bottle of Bacardi that she, Amy had purchased. That she’d hidden behind her wardrobe since the start of term. Her rum. Her fault. She was the one who’d committed the cardinal sin – smuggled in the evil alcohol, secreted it away.

There hadn’t even been that much left, after it had seen the four roommates through a long and trying term. But there’d been enough – enough to make her friends giggle; enough to bring their Housemaster back along the corridor and into their room. Enough to smell their breath; to order them, pyjama- and dressing-gown- clad, to his study.

And after that, her friends went quiet. Quite awful, Tess assured her. Oh god it hurt, Sarah winced. And I don’t want to talk about it, Amanda protested.

Four strokes each, that much she knew. But the others, now enrolled in the not-so-elite society of Caned Girls, kept its secrets close to their hearts. Funny, she thought, how the girls who’ve never been caned are the ones who talk about it incessantly, speculating on what it must be like: those who’ve been beaten maintain a masonic silence about the ritual.

Her mum had been puzzled as she drove back to Wroxdale that morning: not like Amy to worry about school. Friends floated past, smiling, welcoming, exchanging glances and giggles, the confidences of a hot summer just waiting to be shared. Amy’s faked smile hinted at miserable lonely weeks: not true, but preferable to admitting the secret. A secret that might not even be true.

And now, she closed her bedroom door behind her – a Lower Sixth girl now, with the privacy of her own room. She knelt and prayed as she did every night. For mum, for dad, wherever he might be. For herself, for once, not that she should. Hoping that her fears might be unfounded. That Maberley would have forgotten. That he might not have realised that he had anything to forget.

The summer’s last, belated burst of sunshine masked a surprising chill in the late evening air. Tilly shivered as she walked briskly up the street – biting her lip as she swung open the gate and walked up the path between his carefully-tended flower borders: wouldn’t do to look too happy.

She’d go straight upstairs, she’d decided. Avoid questions. A lovely evening out but she hadn’t wanted to disturb her guardian: had some work she needed to finish before next week’s return to the city. To home, to school, to reality.

She turned the key in the door, pushing it open as quietly as she could. Her tiptoed dance along the corridor got her to the bottom stair, before his voice called her back, probing with the one question she didn’t want to answer. “Evening, Tilly. You’re late! What have you been up to?”

She turned smartly around, brushed down her dress (did it look too creased?) and walked back to the drawing room. He laid down a heavy hardback as she walked in, and looked up as if inspecting his charge. She smiled brightly at him: “Is it a good book?”

“Sadly not. His last won the Booker, and rightly so. This is a little lightweight in comparison. Frivolous, even.”

“Ah.”

Silence, increasingly uncomfortable. “I was going up to bed. Some stuff I want to finish reading. For the new term.”

“Very good. Once you’ve answered my question.”

“What question, sir?”

That faint trace of welcome vanished from his face. “Where have you been this evening, Tilly?” Formal, stern, demanding to be answered.

Stay calm. Keep smiling. “I was at Alice’s, sir. We were sitting out in the garden chatting.”

“You were….?” He let the silence hang in the air.

Eventually, she spoke, a shade less confident now. “Yes, sir…”

“And did you eat?”

Perhaps too quickly, falling into the trap: “Her parents gave me dinner, yes. It was nice of them…”

“How interesting. And how are Mr and Mrs Watson?”

“On good form, sir.”

“That’s great to hear. Such lovely people. And it’s so kind of them to feed you. I must call them to thank them…”

He reached across to the side table next to the sofa, and picked up the phone receiver. Slowly, he started to dial…

“Sir…”

He paused.

“They… Just… Please…”

She cringed as he spoke. “Gerald? Evening! Harold here… Fine, thank you. And you?… Marvellous. Just a quick call to express my gratitude for your hospitality this evening… Tilly… Oh! Oh, I’m sorry: I must be confused: I thought she’d said she’d been at yours for dinner…. No? I must have got the wrong end of the stick: my apologies… Sunday? Yes, of course: I’ll see you in church. Bye bye.”

He put down the phone. “Upstairs. Bath. Pyjamas. And then I’ll be up for a little discussion…”

–

Leaving the room, climbing the stairs, trying to think of excuses.

Undressing, shaking at the memory of the last time he’d punished her.

Running the bath, sliding into it as if the water could hide her. Wondering if she could charm her way out.

Putting on her pyjamas, heart beating fast, dreading hearing his approach.

Sitting on the bed, clutching her teddy, wishing he’d get on and come upstairs and get it over and done with.

–

“You stay out late without permission. You lie to me about where you’ve been. I think I have the right to expect better from you.”

“Please, sir. I’ve been so good, worked so hard while I’ve been here. And I apologise, really I do…”

“Fetch the cane from the wardrobe.” No arguments, no sympathy.

“Please…?”

“If you’d like me to call your father, I can…?” She turned, head bowed, and reluctantly walked past him to fetch the dreaded implement. She’d tried her best to hide it amidst her dresses on the first day of her stay, so as not to be reminded every morning of its ever-present threat. And she’d almost, almost survived the summer. This time.

She handed him the crook-handled rattan, knowing all-too-well what was to come. Blushed as she nervously dropped her pyjama bottoms. Bent over next to her bed, meekly and obediently, and stretched forward to touch her toes. And winced with shame as he lowered her knickers.

“A disappointing end to your stay, Tilly,” he observed as he stepped to the side and readied his aim. “I don’t like liars: you’ll count to twelve.”

Twelve? When he’d only given her six last time, and that had been unbearable? When at school, the Headmaster had only given her and the other girls four each (on that terrible afternoon, almost-but-never blotted from her memory) – and those with less force than the lights-out slipperings that the prefects doled out so over-enthusiastically in the dorm rooms?

Twelve… Each with a ferocity that surprised, even before the excruciating pain cut home. Twelve, taken as stoically as she could, but counted through barely-muffled sobs. Twelve weals that would continue to hurt and shame long after he’d gone back downstairs.

She knew to expect few words from him as he beat her. The lecture had come before: the cane did the talking now, until it was over and, through the haze of tears, she was standing and pulling up her clothing after her sentence was complete.

And oh, how she then needed a hug, to be told it was over and that they need discuss it no more. Yet… he kept a distance between them, frowning.

“I’m sorry, sir, truly I am.” What more did he expect from her? Forgive me now: please?

“I’ll make the next part of this easy.” (Next part?) “I don’t want you to have to spin any more lies. Who was the boy you were with this evening?”

She gulped. He couldn’t know. Surely. Trying to sound surprised, innocent: “Boy…?”

“No lies. We’ve just discussed lying, haven’t we? Don’t make it any worse…”

He looked her up and down, waiting for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. “I said I’d make it easy. I bumped into Gerald earlier when I was buying milk. He mentioned that he and Elizabeth were on their way out to dinner and the theatre this evening. And also that he’d seen a girl in a green dress walking along the riverbank holding hands with a boy he didn’t recognise. He thought it was you. You’ll excuse the little pretence of the phone conversation we planned; I’d hoped you might be honest with me without us needing that.”

Think quickly, Tilly. Think quickly… “It was me, sir.”

“Who was he, and where were you going?”

“His name’s Billy, sir. He lives up on the estate on the edge of town. We were just strolling, then we sat and chatted for a while. Under a tree, watching the river. He’s nice.”

“Chatted so much that you came back with your dress crumpled and grass stains on its back?”

“Sir…”

“Did you have sex with him, Tilly?” Blunt as can be.

Blushing deeper than she’d ever blushed before. “No, sir. We… cuddled, as I’ve said.”

He was standing close now. “Cuddled? And where exactly did he touch you whilst he ‘cuddled’ you?”

“We kissed, sir. That’s not wrong, is it?”

“Kissed? Is that all?”

“Yes, sir. Honestly.”

But honesty and her account to him of the evening were necessarily strangers. “Tell me the truth, Tilly…”

“Please sir…”

“You know, I’d almost be inclined to believe you, were it not for the guilt etched all over your face. Put your hands on your head, Tilly. Now!”

Meekly, she complied, as he continued. “See, if you’re not prepared to tell me…” And without warning, his hand reached forward and touched her breast. “Kissed – and then what? Did he touch you here?” A pause, and then: “You know what happens to liars.”

The tears that had accompanied her caning welled up once more. “Please, sir…”

His hand slid between the buttons of her top now, brushing her nipples. More shamed than she’d ever thought possible; pleading: “Sir…”

“So you let him fondle your breasts?”

“Sir… Please. We weren’t hurting anyone.”

He continued his exploration for a moment, then withdrew his hand. “And where else?”

“Sir….” And then another, more urgent plea as his hand pushed inside the elastic of her pyjama trousers and into her knickers. “No, sir…”

“No, he didn’t touch you here?”

“Please…”

“Look me in the eyes.” But how could she, as his fingers brushed such private parts? Slowly, she lifted her face, mortified, desperate to bring it to an end: “Yes, sir, he touched me. Just for a moment, and then I stopped him. But that was all.”

“Such shameful behaviour; so inappropriate. So very wrong.” He slowly withdrew his hand. “And such an interesting interpretation of the word ‘all’. Now: you’re in enough trouble that your answer to my earlier question will make little difference to your punishment. But let me repeat it, and do tell me honestly this time: did you have sex with him, Tilly?”

“No! Sir, you have to believe me. I wouldn’t do that. I’m not that sort of girl…”

“After what I’ve just found out, I don’t know quite what sort of girl you are. One who lets boys from the town touch her up on the riverbank? It’s not a good girl, for sure, is it?”

–

Not a good girl, who was sent to his study, to retrieve the improbably-thick leather strap from the roll-top desk. (“I taught in Scotland for a little while. I used to find this far more effective than the cane when the senior girls misbehaved.”)

Not a good girl, who found herself lying naked on her bed a few minutes later, her already-marked and painful bottom lifted into the air by the pile of pillows.

Not a good girl, who held tight onto the sides of the mattress, cursing her stupidity and clenching as she readied herself for the thrashing.

… who reached back in agony to clutch her buttocks at the first shocking stroke.

… who screamed aloud at the second, imploring him to stop.

… who knew beyond a shadow of doubt by the third that what she’d done was deeply wrong, and that she deserved – needed – to be punished.

… who lost count soon after, wishing he’d given her the comfort of a set number of strokes and of counting their progress to a clearly-defined end.

… who knew at that end, when he told her it was over, that he’d achieved his stated goal: “I’m going to whip you until you’re truly sorry.”

… and who, finally, fell into her guardian’s forgiving arms for the longest of hugs. “Not a good girl today, Tilly. But today’s over.” And, as he tucked her into bed, a gentle kiss on her forehead. “So brave. Now sleep, and forget. And I’ll have the best of girls back in the morning. Night, night…”

A girl, slight, shaking, standing before her Housemaster’s desk, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He studied a piece of paper intently, then set it down on the desk.

He peered over his reading glasses: “Do you dispute Mr. Watson’s account?”

Shamefaced: “No, sir.”

“Then we have something of a problem, Alice, do we not. What did I tell you would happen the last time one of my colleagues sent you to my office?”

Hopes shattered: he hadn’t forgotten… “That you would send me to the Headmaster, sir. But please, I…”

“Indeed.” He raised a hand to silence her. “You’ve had two Saturday detentions already this term; if the second-most serious punishment in the school’s having no effect, then I’m afraid you leave me with no choice.”

“But I won’t do it again. I mean, I know I’ve not been as good as I should have been. But I’ll really try…”

“If I had a tape recording to play back, I think you’ll find that’s precisely what you said last time. And we agreed quite unequivocally what would happen were there to be a ‘next time’.” He reached into his desk, drawing out a sheet of paper. Taking up his fountain pen, he started to write: not a long note, but long enough. He paused for the ink to dry, folded it, placed it neatly into a crisp envelope; inscribed the Headmaster’s name.

“You’ll take this to the Headmaster at afternoon break. It explains the situation, and asks him to give you four strokes of the cane. I’m sorry it’s come to this, Alice, and I sincerely hope it teaches you the lesson that I’m afraid you so evidently need to learn.”

And with that, he walked around his desk, handed her the letter, and opened the door to show her out into the corridor, where the other waiting girls stared at her, and at the letter, and deciphered her fate.

–

The following morning: early, cold, crisp. Gossiping girls queuing for chapel, falling silent as a gaggle of gowned masters walked past; Alice’s Housemaster called her over.

“And? Did you go and see the Headmaster?”

“Yes, sir.” She looked downcast. “I’m sorry for all the inconvenience I caused.”

“Well, fresh leaf turned over and all that. You’re a good girl, Alice; you just need to remember that at times.”

And with that, he was gone, heading to the Master’s pew to sing the morning’s hymns with his usual vigour.

–

It was during that afternoon’s Geography lesson that her worst fears came true, that her gamble was shown to have so spectacularly failed.

The knock on the door; Susie Jones, the deputy head prefect entering with a note for Mr. Green, their teacher. The apologies for disturbing him, the wait whilst he opened the envelope, digested its contents.

“Alice Barnes.”

All eyes turned in her direction, as her world turned dark.

“The Headmaster would like to see you immediately. Would you accompany Miss Jones to his office?”

–

Scarcely a word passed between them as they walked around the quadrangle: prison officer, leading the guilty party to the scaffold. It was only after he’d beckoned his, “Enter”, and she’d reached for the door handle, that Susie whispered a faint “good luck”. The prefect turned, her job done: there was no need for her to accompany the victim to meet her fate.

Headmaster and Housemaster stood side by side, sternly watching as the offender entered the room.

“Please… I was scared…”

The Headmaster spoke first: “Every girl who’s sent to be caned is scared, Miss Barnes. But at least they’re brave enough to face the consequences of their actions.”

“I’m sorry, I…”

But the Headmaster had turned to the desk behind him, and had already picked up the cane – longer, thicker than she had pictured it in her nightmares the previous night. “You can count yourself lucky that I am merely going to double the number of strokes that your Housemaster awarded you yesterday. Now, you know the protocol.”

And know the protocol she did. Two years before, she’d vowed never to return as she’d fled in tears, admonished together with Gemma and Mary for their summer afternoon’s frolics in the park. So much nicer than double Maths, until they’d been spied on their return and taken straight to the Headmaster, whose displeasure at their failure to heed that morning’s lecture in assembly had found its expression in three strokes each.

Hands shaking, she reached under her skirt to remove her knickers. She folded them neatly into the pocket of her green blazer, which she hung on the back of the door where all those other blazers had waited for their owners to be punished. Blinking back the tears, avoiding her Housemaster’s gaze, she walked to the side of the dark red armchair.

Alice lifted the hem of her skirt; bent forward, bared, stretching across, right over the opposite arm. Yes, she remembered the procedure, as she tried to forget what would come next.

“Eight strokes, to be taken in silence. If I were feeling less lenient, Alice, you would be about to receive twelve for your dishonesty.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He made her wait. Let her heart pound some more. Time to reflect, to regret, to pray for forgiveness in advance of the retribution.

And then it began.

Time dulls the memory. “Oh, it hurt, but it wasn’t that bad really.” The first stroke broke that spell, reminded her as it burned its mark that it was that bad: that it was awful, unbearable. And that was before the second: far, far harder, as if he’d watched the first and deemed her squirms insufficient.

And last time? Last time, at this point, it was almost over: she could brace herself: just one to go, I can survive it, breath deeply, be brave. This time he’d scarcely started.

Time stands still when you’re being caned. The world outside ceases to exist, and the world inside the room focuses vividly into life. Sights – that carpet, its slightly-worn pattern, gazed on by so many girls from this unfortunate angle. Sounds: the swish as the cane cut the air, preceding the impact of the third stroke, low, biting. Emotions and feelings, the shame and pain running wild.

He didn’t speak during the punishment: silence ruled, until the cane next descended and a stifled sob (despite her best intentions) filled the air. Four strokes: half way.

Yesterday, at this point, she’d have been dressing, wincing, apologising, leaving. The Headmaster’s pause seemed to reflect this: allowing her to compose herself sufficiently after the fourth that her thinking could clarify, could disassociate itself momentarily from its focus on the searing stripes.

And then the fifth took her back, a girl being punished, a girl wanting it to be over, wanting forgiveness, wanting to run and hide.

Three to go. Her entire previous caning, so often remembered, now about to start. She gulped, holding onto the chair, knuckles whitening. And waited… waited…for the sixth… waited… waited… for the seventh, unbearable, as if it had cut straight through her… waited…. waited… and then the final blow and the final crescendo of pain was being talked over with a “Please stand and get dressed.”

There was little more to say, once her blazer was back on, her knickers pulled up ever-so-gingerly. She was sorry for what she’d done, for the inconvenience she’d caused; Headmaster and Housemaster alike were disappointed, were sure it wouldn’t happen again. But the Headmaster has said that last time, and so had she.

JANUARY, 1983

She hadn’t wanted to be chosen. The anonymity of her first term had suited her just fine. Make a few friends – not too many, not being the overly-gregarious type. Try and work hard: the teachers seemed to like her, their praise felt good, and her parents had been so proud of her school report at Christmas.

She was never going to be a star on the hockey pitch, but why not put her heart and soul into it on those cold, wet November afternoons when others less enthusiastic dreamt of the library?

And mix into school life as best she could; the choir was fun, and the History Society’s two trips to local country houses had been wonderful. An escape, for an afternoon at a time – not that she really wanted to escape.

Pretty perfect, all in all.

–

“Have you seen the notice?” Pippa had asked on the first evening back in the new year.

She hadn’t. Looking back, she wished she never had. But there, outside the prefects’ room, on the list of “Fagging Duties – Lent Term” was her name, next to that of James Miles. The Head Prefect. Aloof, arrogant, feared.

There’d been a note in her pigeon hole at morning break the following day. It simply read: “Where were you this morning? My study: 1pm sharp. J.M.”

–

He’d made her wait, of course, in the corridor. Alone. Panicked.

When he finally arrived, and ushered her into the surprisingly large, surprisingly untidy room that served as his quarters – study, adjoining bedroom – he came straight to the point: “My fag is supposed to be here at seven each morning, to make my toast and coffee. You failed to show up.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Of course you will. That hardly need saying, does it? Nor do I need to spell out that I will beat you for your absence this morning. Now, I suggest you go and talk to Jennifer: she looked after me last term. She will tell you all you need to know. Or most of it, at least… Off you go.”

And off she went, hoping that the seemingly-forgotten threat to beat her had been an idle one.

–

6pm. Waiting outside again, for that was the hour at which it seemed he expected to be attended to before dinner. “Never be late. Never knock. Stand facing the wall. He’ll let you in when he’s ready for you.”

Listening to the sounds from inside, of a girl crying as she was caned.

The door opened. She glanced to her right: Jennifer, leaving, in tears. “He wants to see you now,” mumbled resentfully as she passed.

The cane was on his desk. He made no mention of it. “There’s a pile of papers in the corner. Tidy them. And then make my bed. Oh, and a cup of tea would be nice to start with.” (Strong, one sugar, only a little milk – she’d learnt that from her predecessor. Was that the faint flicker of a satisfied smile when he sipped it for the first time?)

The bed: take off the sheet each day and put it back on neatly. Shake out the duvet. Make sure it was straight – not tucked in at the bottom. The two pillows on top of one another. “And when you’re finished, with anything he’s asked you to do and anything else you should have done, go and stand facing the door and wait for further instructions.”

Was it five minutes, waiting there in silence for his command? Ten? An eternity, it seemed, when trying to imagine what it would be like to be punished. She should have done her research. Should have known. Shouldn’t have been such a fool.

“Go to dinner… Shut the door behind you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Expelled into the corridor. Alone. Unpunished. Confused.

–

He flogged her that night. Her 10pm duty. Showered, in her pyjamas and dressing gown. Ready for bed, save for his needs.

Stripped. Naked. Trying to cover herself; to protect her modesty. Bent over his desk, having to reach up slightly onto tiptoe.

“I gave Jennifer twelve strokes earlier for failing to show me the courtesy of seeking you out to proffer her advice. I feel the same would be appropriate for you.”

–

Feeling the stripes, later, as she lay face down on her bed trying not to let the others in the dorm hear that she was crying. Raised weals. Perfectly parallel. “A taste of things to come if you don’t buck up your ideas,” he’d told her afterwards.

–

The slipper – or plimsoll, to be more precise – across a recently-caned bottom is almost too much to bear. Especially when the toast wasn’t really burnt. Especially when, by her watch, she had been there a minute before seven. But when did fairness and fagging ever go together?

–

7, 1, 6, 10. Her days became defined by her hours of attendance. By the fearful desire to please. Re-enforced after a few days, when he perceived that she had again been late: “So tomorrow I’ll give you seven strokes at seven, one at one, six at six and ten at ten. Twenty-four in total: seems like a fair number to teach a girl a lesson.”

It would be unfair, mind, to say that the beatings were daily. He was more discerning than that: as he commented a few weeks in, “It hurts more when you’ve not been caned for a few days, doesn’t it?”

Fetching other girls for their punishments became part of her routine, too. Hunting them down, knowing that if she failed to bring them back, she herself would be the one being beaten in their place. Sometimes he’d have her wait outside whilst administering the thrashing to the lass she’d led to her fate; sometimes inside in her usual standby position facing the door; occasionally, watching (to her mortification, and that of the girl being disciplined).

And then there was the blessed week after half-term, when he suddenly seemed pleased with her. No comments, no jibes, no beatings fair or unfair. When she finally began to relax, and to hope that she could enjoy school once more. Until after chapel on Sunday when – as she left – he told her to report immediately to his room.

“But I thought you were happy with my work,” she’d pleaded, as he stood before her flexing the cane. That he’d merely been keeping a list of her transgressions, to deal with in one go, had never crossed her mind. “Face down on the bed, skirt up, knickers down,” he’d ordered. She’d found his pillows positioned midway down the mattress, lifting her buttocks high for him to whip. “How many strokes,” she’d asked in terror. “Enough to make you a very sorry girl indeed,” he’d replied. And he had. Sorrier than she had ever been before.

“I’ll try harder, I promise.” Such a catalogue of errors. Not good enough for him, he’d explained. Should be ashamed. He owed it to her to try to help her.

–

And then the following afternoon. Hands shaking with want-to-do-well nerves. Tea spilling. Papers covered.

“Please… please… I can’t take another caning.”

“Then I shall have to punish you in another way.” Standing up. “”Kneel down in front of me…”

Unzipping. Grabbing her hair. Forcefully overcoming her reluctance…

–

SEPTEMBER 1986

“I promise to uphold the dignity of the office of the prefect, to be just and fair, and to serve in God’s name.”

The traditional vow. Her vow. In front of the whole school at the opening assembly of term.

In front of him.

Again, it had been a simple notice, back before the summer holiday, that had brought the bad tidings:

 NEW MASTER

It gives me great pleasure to announce that Mr James Miles, a former Head Prefect of the school, will be joining us on the staff from the start of the Michaelmas Term as a member of the English department. Mr Miles has recently graduated from Churchill College, Cambridge with first-class honours. We are delighted to welcome him back.

A. Chesterton MA (Cantab)

Headmaster

 But it would be different now, right? He would have forgotten her. And it was long ago. So long ago.

… so very, very fresh in her memory.

–

Strong, now.

Not really that strong.

–

The first lesson of the new term was with him; the gods (or devils) were laughing at her that morning.

“So lovely to see you all again,” he’d said, “but in such a different context. I have happy memories of some of you from your first and my last year here.” Did she imagine that his eyes rested on her for just a few moments too long?

A lively debate ensued for their forty-minute class. Him. Her. The other six girls were almost incidental.

Shakespeare formed such an important part of their A Level syllabus, and he proved to be a lively and insightful teacher. “Just as in ‘The Merry Wives of Windsor’,” he’d pointed out to her at one point. “I’ve not read it, sir,” she’d explained.

“So, ‘Titus Andronicus’.” he’d enquired of her later. “A favourite?”

Again, the confession that it hadn’t yet been on her list. How could he do this? Nigh on forty plays that the bard had penned; perhaps half a dozen she’d not seen or read; two of those picked out for debate.

Little girl. Failing to live up to high expectations. Not good enough.

Older now. More confident. Don’t give in…

–

His letter, delivered by an obedient pupil to the prefects’ room at morning break. She would recognise that handwriting anywhere.

“I have been reflecting on our lesson this morning. I had been looking forward to renewing our acquaintance, and had been led by my colleagues to expect high things of such a star pupil.

Needless to say, I was more than a little disappointed by your lack of diligence in studying texts that I would expect a high-flyer to have absorbed far earlier in her school career.

As I recall, you always used to have a ready excuse. But I know how to make you focus on your work, don’t I?

It appears that a short discussion would be in order. Please report to my rooms in the staff quarters. 6pm. Sharp. I am sure you understand the nature of the conversation that I intend to have with you.”

–

Her reply, delivered by a different, equally-obedient girl to the staff common room at lunch time:

“Thank you for your earlier letter. As I mentioned, I have studied the overwhelming majority of Shakespeare’s plays. The two somewhat more obscure ones to which you referred this morning are on my reading list, but are perhaps less directly related than many others to the texts on which we will be examined next summer. I therefore accorded the pair a lower priority than more important works.

I am extremely motivated and think you will find that my essay and examination marks speak for themselves. So, whilst I am grateful for your offer of assistance and a meeting this evening, I respectfully decline it. I am a prefect now, and I think you’ll find that things are necessarily rather different between us than in the past.”

–

The words sounded less clever when read back to her by the Headmaster that afternoon. She’d been plucked by the school secretary from her early-afternoon French class, and marched around the manicured lawns to his office.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever read such a disrespectful, insolent note to a member of staff.”

Staring at the carpet. “No, sir.”

“Were this from a more junior pupil, I would give them six very hard strokes of the cane.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Since it is from you, and mindful of the office that you hold – one which, after some consideration, I shall allow you to keep – I will double that. Would you step outside and ask my secretary to let you have the senior cane, and then come straight back in to be punished.”

–

Knickers in blazer pocket. Blazer removed and folded neatly over the arm of a chair.

Bent over touching her toes. Skirt lifted clear, and tucked into its hem.

And then the consequences. Of her actions. Of his return. Of her response to his return. Delivered methodically, the room silent save for the swish of the descent, the crack of rattan against taut skin, her involuntary gasps, her eventual (once she had recovered her breath) count of the shocking strokes. “One, thank you, sir.” “Two, thank you, sir…”

Ashamed, afterwards. Not much of that ‘dignity’ she had vowed to upheld present in such circumstances – save for the way in which she took her punishment without flinching.

“Hand the cane back on your way out,” he’d told her. “And consider this your final warning if you wish to remain one of my prefects. Disappointing; very disappointing…”

–

The note, at afternoon break. Curt:

“My office. 6pm, as previously instructed. J.M.”

–

No argument, this time.

No mercy, either.

“You are clearly still a very disrespectful young woman,” he stated, “for all your achievements and high office. Some find that being appointed as a prefect rather goes to their head; it appears to have done so for you. Now, I understand the headmaster had words with you this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And he punished you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did he give you?”

“A caning, sir.”

“You are used to those, though.”

“Not since my first year here, sir.”

“How many strokes?”

“Twelve, sir.”

“Then it would only seem appropriate, as it was me whom you insulted, that I apply the same number.” He pointed to his desk.

“I think you recall the position. And bare, of course. Although you may leave your clothes on other than your knickers.”

Sotto voce: “Bastard.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“You’ll pay for that.”

“I’m sure I’m already going to. Sir.”

Twelve stripes from her earlier encounter. And from Mr Miles? Each of his dozen laid directly on top of its headmasterial counterpart, working slowly from top to bottom.

Her silence lasted for the first four, before he broke her. Before she allowed herself to writhe and howl at each stroke. Before she had no choice but to do so.

Before the dozen was done.

Before he was standing behind her. Unzipping. “You’re right that things are rather different now.” Pressing her down against the desk. “As I recall, you used to have a very obedient little mouth. I think now you’re older that it will take other methods to guarantee your good behaviour…”

It always amazes me when I read books and websites full of schoolgirl anecdotes. Every school with its ancient chapel, its hallowed cloisters, its beautiful playing fields and triumphs at hockey. Its dormitories, with young girls having pillow fights just as their predecessors had for decades before. Echoes of past glories in the framed photographs dating back to the late nineteenth-century. “Colleges”, named after ancient market towns – or in honour of noble saints (and even after some eminently forgettable ones). Prep, tuck shops, and Housemasters guiding their elite towards the heights of Oxbridge.

Real-life isn’t like that. At least it wasn’t for me.

Yet at least there were some parallels, some similar experiences for a bright, intelligent girl.

I say ‘at least’. Perhaps I should say ‘unfortunately’.

–

“Daddy wants a word.”

I’d heard the phone ring, of course. Hesitated to pick it up, whereas normally I’d have rushed to pick up the call in my parents’ bedroom. Heard mum’s voice from downstairs: “Hi, darling. How’s Singapore?”

Recoiled, slightly. I’d been watching the clock, wondering if he’d call, for three hours since I’d been sent home. It must be the early hours of the morning for him. After midnight, yet he always called once he knew I’d be back from school.

I curled back up on my bed, hugging a pillow tight. Heart fluttering, waiting, wondering what she was saying. What he might be saying in response.

“Daddy wants a word.”

I couldn’t move. Didn’t want to. Couldn’t face doing so.

“It’s costing a fortune, my love. Hurry up.” Unsympathetic, as she had been since she’d returned to find me at home, early, and I’d had to recount my tale of woe for the first time that evening.

I hesitated still, scarcely able to face the conversation. Partly not wanting him to know that I’d let him down, partly dreading his decision.

I padded barefoot into the next room, and picked up the phone from the midst of the clutter on my mum’s dressing table. “Hello, daddy.”

“Hi, my sweet. Missing you.”

I missed him too. Six thousand miles away: what right had his company to take him away from me? “Only three months,” they’d said. Only?

“I miss you too, daddy. I wish you were at home.” (Did I? Would I really rather have to look him in the eyes, to see his disappointment face-to-face?)

A pause. “Mummy told me what happened.”

The conversation rehearsed in my mind so many times these past few hours. My carefully-planned explanation. Yet the words came tumbling out: “It wasn’t my fault… I can explain… It was just a misunderstanding… She’s in the year above, she’s bigger than me… The teachers are just picking on me… It’s not fair.”

He listened patiently, waited for me to finish. Then paused again, a long pause this time. I wondered what he was thinking. I prayed he wasn’t too angry. Too upset?

“So mummy tells me that you apparently pushed this girl, then she pushed you, then you ended up fighting. And that one of the staff saw exactly what happened?”

“Please, it wasn’t my fault. She started it.” I sounded unconvincing, even to myself.

“But you ended fighting, nonetheless.” I could sense the disappointment in his voice.

Nonetheless. Guilty as charged. “Yes, daddy.”

“And so you were taken to the Headmaster?”

“Yes, daddy.” Marched down the corridors, the other girls watching, enthralled at the drama playing out in front of their eyes. Hauled into his office.

“And what did he say?”

“He asked what happened.” Mrs Pewsey, the grand inquisitor, outlining the case for the prosecution. The Headmaster, shaking his head in mock shock, probing for details.

“And mummy and I have to make a decision, right?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“And what will happen if we say ‘yes’?”

I swallowed hard. “Then I’ll have to go and see the Headmaster after assembly tomorrow morning to get the cane.”

“And if we say ‘no’?”

“I’ll be suspended for a week.”

“What about the other girl? What will her parents decide?”

Amanda? She’d been crying even harder than me when we’d left the Head’s office. “She… she’s been caned once before. So her daddy will say ‘yes’.”

“How many other girls in your class have been caned?”

I tried to picture the classroom, the girls sat at their desks. Nat, back in the very first term, for swearing at Mr. Wakefield. Erin and Caitlin for cheating last year. (Well, Caitlin hadn’t cheated, really; she didn’t need to. Erin was the one who’d done the copying). And then dear, sweet, Gemma, when they’d realised she’d been forging her sick note, just after we’d started Year 11 last month. I remembered comforting her at morning break afterwards, whilst some of the others teased, and the following morning too when she told me what had happened at home when she got home.

“Four.” Danger in numbers here. Please daddy, don’t make it five.

“And how many girls’ parents have chosen the suspension?”

I tried not to cry. “None…”

“I wish I were at home with you, my sweet.”

“I want you here so badly, daddy.”

“I’ll be back soon, my love, honestly I will.”

I was crying now, so much that I almost missed what he’d started to say. “…because you’d miss a huge amount of work if you were suspended. And the other girl – what did you say she was called? Amanda? – is going to get caned. And I wonder if it would really be fair to your four classmates if you didn’t take your punishment?”

I waited for the denouement. But none came. He was waiting for me…

“Yes, daddy.”

“And I so don’t want you to be hurt, but we’ve got to think about what’s fair, and right, and best for you in the long-run… What do you think?”

“Please, daddy.” Please… Come home. What do I think? Spank me yourself, if you must, like you did that one time on this very bed when Isla and I had been caught in Sir Hugh’s garden. Steal me away to another world, where everybody’s happy. Turn the clock back five hours. “I think… Daddy, I don’t know. I’m scared…”

“Tell me honestly, my love. I know it’ll hurt, but do you think we’d be right if we agreed to the cane?”

I wonder, looking back, if he ever heard my “Yes” through my sobs, before he told me how he’d fax a letter over to the Headmaster. It didn’t even occur to me until much later to wonder whether he’d been able to fax it himself from his room, or whether some hotel worker had been party to my shame.

And so I agreed to go to the Headmaster in the morning. Promised him that I’d be brave. (Brave? Me? No way. But I’d try, I really would).

“My sweet?”

“Yes, daddy?”

“You know that nothing that ever happens will make me think any differently about you, or make me love you an iota less?”

“I love you daddy.”

“I love you too. I’ll be thinking about you.”

And then he made me give the phone back to my mum.

My bedroom’s nice. I love my posters, my teddy bears. It’s safe. Just the sort of place I needed to curl up and cry. I don’t know what generated the most tears: Daddy’s resigned, disappointed tone; the sheer humiliation; or the dread of the pain to come? I remembered how it had hurt that time, when he’d taken me over his knee, and his big hands had imprinted his punishment. But the cane? I thought back to poor Lisa McBride, and her howls as she’d been thrashed on the stage in front of the whole assembly that time for stealing those phones: was that really going to happen to me?

I hardly slept that night, as you might imagine.

–

Mum tried to avoid the issue in the morning, as I knew she would. It could have been any other school day, for all she said. I guess she didn’t really know what to say. (Remembering back to a conversation I’d once overheard between her and Aunt Erin about the priests at their school, and their straps, perhaps she just didn’t want to think about it).

And it could have been any other school assembly – the same dull reading by an A-level pupil of a worthy yet incomprehensible poem, an uplifting song from the discordant school choir, an interminable list of announcements about the minutiae of school life – were it not for the thought of what was to come. Were it not for the fact that the Head’s final, “Any girls who need to see me will find me in my study immediately after assembly.” And for the fact that my very presence in the Hall, testament to my parents’ decision, provoked glances and giggles in my direction.

Amanda and I found ourselves walking towards his study together, footsteps echoing around this far end of the top floor corridor usually out of bounds to mere minions unless they’d particularly excelled, or particularly disappointed. The older girl gave me a hug, enmity replaced with the need for mutual re-assurance.

We knocked on his door.

I don’t know why, but as I’d fretted and panicked last night, turning the likely scene over in my head (trying to imagine, even as I tried to forget), it had been Amanda who’d gone first. She’d had it before; she was in the year above. She was altogether bigger and braver and more confident. So when he looked at me, his “would you join me first” ran through me like a bolt of lightening.

The room was bare, cold. His desk was pushed against the wall to the left of the door, papers moved to one side. A solitary wooden chair, curved, with arm rests. A few framed photos on the wall; overflowing filing cabinets, a dusty silver trophy abandoned in a corner (presumably a leftover from the establishment’s long-forgotten grammar school days). He didn’t even sit down, taking the cane straight from his desk and inviting me to lift my skirt and bend over the back of the chair. I did so nervously, the wood cold against my exposed thighs, hands resting on the cushion. Acutely conscious of feeling almost bare: I could swim happily in a fairly immodest bathing costume for the school team in front of dozens of spectators, yet my white school knickers now left me feeling naked.

He spoke calmly, in his usual measured tone. “I received your father’s note this morning. He sounds as disappointed in you as I am. As it’s your first time, I shall be somewhat lenient, yet I shall have failed in my job if I don’t punish you hard enough to prevent your return. Three strokes: count them as we go.”

I said that I’d tried to imagine, the previous night, piecing together anecdotes and the memory of Lisa in the school assembly. Nothing, and I mean nothing, could have prepared me for the pain of that first stroke. For a moment, a fraction of a second, I thought it was even bearable – a hard blow, the stick drumming into me; a thud, no more. But then the pain, searing across my behind, like nothing I’d felt before.

Be brave, daddy had told me. Be brave.

I became conscious of the Headmaster watching me, and recalled his edict to count. “One, sir.”

The second followed shortly. And if I’d thought I’d known what to expect, I’d been dreaming: this second blow built on the first, the pain crescendo-ing out of control.

I gasped, gulping for air, somehow acknowledging that he’d reached “Two.” Clutched the cushion, knuckles white, concentrating.

And then it was over. God, the third stroke hurt, even more than the third, the dam that had been holding back the tears giving way, but then I could proclaim my, “Three, sir, thank you sir, sorry sir” and be standing up.

“Wait for me outside, and send Amanda in. I’ll want you back in a moment when I’ve dealt with her.”

We passed in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes. Not sure what to do: etiquette books should have a section on “How to behave after a caning.” Hands on my backside, I leant against the wall, hoping that might quell the pain.

And then the first of Amanda’s strokes, as clear as can be through the plasterboard wall behind me. Heard her cry; realised that my own punishment must have been equally audible.

Tried not to listen to strokes two and three as I tried to stem the flow of tears.

And listened aghast as a fourth howl came from the room behind, and then (quickly this time) two more loud blows. Six? But why? I’d had three? And how they hurt. Poor Amanda. What…?

The door opened, and he called me in, cane still in hand. She was standing there white-faced, bawling. I wanted to hug her – for her sake, and for mine. My own sobs started once more.

The Headmaster looked from one of us to the other, no doubt contemplating a job well done. “So you’ve had three strokes each for fighting. Amanda was given an extra stroke for starting the fight, as Mrs Pewsey confirmed to me yesterday, and she’s taken two extra since this is her second caning.” He looked at me: “Let that be a warning to you not to re-offend. And I doubt you’ll be back here in a hurry, Amanda.” (As if I needed a warning. As if she did).

“Sorry, sir.” From both of us. Sorry girls indeed.

“OK, on your way. You may stop and wash your faces, but I shall check with your teachers that you were back in class by…” he looked at the clock, “9.20 at the latest. Five minutes, or you’ll be back here at lunchtime. Now hurry.”

“Yes, sir.” Again in unison, no desire to be back here at lunchtime or at any time.

–

Daddy came home about a month later. The scars had healed by then, of course – at least the physical ones: being fair-skinned, the three stripes marked me for more than a week.

But the mental ones? When he arrived back, it was hard not to remember that there was some unfinished business to discuss. He swept me off my feet, of course: he always does. Hugs, and kisses, and an evening of not wanting to let him go. My daddy, at home, with me, where he should be.

And we talked – about Singapore (silly things: how he’d been caught in a thunderstorm and drenched from head to toe; how the maid who’d tidied his hotel room every day had laughed when he bought her flowers at the end of his stay). About school – how my work was going, what the other girls were up to. About everything but…

And when I went to bed, curled up in my pyjamas, reading light on, he came upstairs – as I knew he would. Perched on my bed. Held me tight, warm, close. Secure. And then we talked – about what had happened. How he’d worried about me. About whether it had been awful, whether it had hurt, whether the other girls had teased (yes, yes, and unequivocally yes).

Talked about no matter what happened, I’d always be his most precious thing. How he loved me. How he was home. How he’d look after me, always.

I cried a little, and he wiped away my tears, and kissed me goodnight. And I cuddled up into his embrace, safe and warm, and feel deeply asleep

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Yes, they’d be caned if they were caught. But that would be a price worth paying. Caned girls were cool girls: the centres of attention. Rebels with a cause, martyrs for youth and freedom and breaking stupid, dictatorial rules.

And it couldn’t hurt that much, after all.

–

Couldn’t hurt that much, when daddy finally put her out of her misery by coming upstairs. Plunged her deeper into misery, taking off and folding his belt. Making her get out of bed; drop her pyjama bottoms; bend over and touch her toes.

Saw the fourteen neat-but-overlapping stripes, still raised, still sore. Whipped her, nonetheless. Whipped her, because. And left her to sleep, hugs a matter for the following morning, not for a disgraced girl punished and put to bed early.

Hadn’t hurt, when he’d read the headmaster’s letter. When he’d folded it neatly into his pocket. When he’d told her he was ashamed of her. When he’s sent her to her room.

When her sister had brought in tea and toast, in lieu of the family dinner, and scampered off quickly for fear of a scolding for staying and sympathising too long.

–

Hadn’t caused their hearts to beat, when they realised they’d been caught. To try to hide the still-lit cigarettes, to pray that the search of her blazer pockets would somehow not reveal the near-empty pack. To hope that the wind would magic away the unmistakable aroma. To damn fate for letting a prefect patrol the woods at the far-flung reaches of the playing fields – “just in case there happens to be anything untoward going on…”

Hadn’t caused her tears to fall, standing in the corridor as the first of the trio had been called in by the headmaster. As, through the door, she’d counted the unmistakable sound of the strokes: one, two. Surely enough for a first offence? Three? Four. Then blessed silence, before the youngest girl emerged, utterly unsuccessful in her attempts to feign bravado.

“He wants you next” – pointing to her best friend. Whose cries, moments later, would punctuate the still air of this attic floor atop the school building. Would break her heart, as much as terrify her soul.

Whose beating would precede her own. “Your cigarettes, I believe?” Her nod condemned her to six strokes. “Doubled, as you know the rules dictate, for a scholarship girl.” Condemned her to bend over his hastily-cleared desk, on tiptoe as she reached for the far side to cling on. To flinch at the touch of him lifting her skirt; lowering her knickers.

Couldn’t hurt that much Couldn’t… Couldn’t…

Couldn’t be possible that anything could hurt more. That this was happening to her. That there were eleven, ten, nine still to go.

That she had been so stupid. Eight…

That they’d been caught. Seven, six…

That she was standing up, clutching her behind, a scared girl in front of him being ordered to bend back over “right now! and I’ll give you that one again and add an extra one for the trouble.”

That she could possibly hold on. Clenching the desk edge tight. Five, four.

That the tears were running down her cheeks, and she couldn’t wipe them away as they fell onto the oak. Three. Two.

That it would be over in just a moment…

One.

Done.

Silence. Pain. Humiliation. Disgrace.

“And now for the two extras that you earned yourself…”

She glanced down again at the form as she walked into the school library. ‘Please report to my study at 8.30pm this evening. You should ensure that you are familiar with Section 13 of the School Rules prior to our meeting.’ Followed by her Housemaster’s scrawled signature.

And she felt the butterflies in her stomach once again. What if?…

No, it must be about the school music competition. Or about her Oxford entrance exams. Or about her scholarship.

Because no-one had seen her.

She’d only been gone for an hour.

Just long enough to see him again. To hold him. To be close to him.

And then to get back to school before the end of the lunchbreak.

But then the note. Handed to her at afternoon break by the house prefect.

Section 13?

She composed herself, and looked at the librarian. ‘Please… please, Mr. Watkinson. Is there a copy of the school rules in the library?’

He smiled at her.’Of course.’ Pointing to the first row of books. ‘Top shelf. Left hand side.’ And he went back to his reading.

Reaching up. Her hand grasping the leather-bound volume. Pulling it down. Taking it to the furthest table.

Opening the cover…

Feeling the volume fall open half-way through.

At the right page.

And reading…

School Rules

Section 13

Corporal Punishment

13.1

The school’s objective is to provide its students with a caring environment in which they can maximise their personal development. The continuing good behaviour of pupils is essential if we are to achieve this, and they are expected to comply at all times with the Rules set out in this document.

13.2

Where pupils breach school rules, a range of disciplinary measures are available to staff. These are designed to achieve the twin goals of deterrence and punishment – seeking to prevent offences from occurring, whilst also imposing retribution for any misbehaviour.

13.3

Standard disciplinary measures include lines, detentions, withholding of privileges (e.g. grounding) and other punishments as may be deemed appropriate by individual masters.

13.4

The Governing Body is clear that any behaviour that may cause serious disruption to the school environment should be treated as a matter of the utmost concern. In such cases, discipline shall be administered by means of corporal punishment.

13.5

Corporal punishment may be used at the master’s discretion in any circumstances where other forms of discipline are not believed to be likely to prove effective. This may include, for example, correcting the behaviour of ‘repeat offenders’, and dealing with cases of insolence or insubordination.

13.6

There are also a number of more serious offences for which corporal punishment is mandatory. These shall include:

a. Possession or consumption of any form of tobacco, alcohol or drugs

b. Cheating

c. Truancy, including any absence from school premises without permission

d. Inviting non-school-members onto school premises without permission

e. Use or threat of violence to other pupils (including bullying)

f. Sexual activity of any nature

g. Any activity which causes public damage to the school’s reputation

h. Any criminal activity.

13.7

Certain of the offences in 13.6 may be deemed to be serious enough to require additional measures such as suspension or expulsion. It is noted that corporal punishment is mandatory even if such additional measures are being taken.

13.8

Any prefect or member of staff may determine that corporal punishment is the appropriate measure in any given case. However, corporal punishment may only be administered by the Headmaster, his deputy or by the pupil’s own Housemaster. All offences requiring corporal punishment should therefore be reported to the student’s Housemaster in the first instance.

13.9

Corporal punishment should be administered in private, although where a number of pupils are to be punished for the same offence, they may be punished together.

13.10

All punishments should be administered using the cane. Masters who are required to administer corporal punishment will be provided with canes by the Bursar’s Office.

13.11

Any sentence of corporal punishment shall carry a minimum of three strokes and a maximum of eight, per offence, at the discretion of the master administering the caning. Multiple offences may be dealt with during the same punishment session.

13.12

Prior to administering corporal punishment, the master concerned shall clearly explain the offences for which the punishment is being administered, and shall require the student to sign a standard Punishment Form (Part 1).

13.13

All punishments must be applied to the pupil’s bare buttocks. For mandatory punishments (13.6), the pupil should be required to remove all items of clothing. For discretionary punishments (13.5 above), it is at the discretion of the master administering the punishment to decide whether the pupil is allowed to retain any items of clothing.

13.14

To receive their punishment, the pupil may be required to position themselves over an appropriate piece of furniture (e.g. desk, chair), or may be required to bend over and touch their toes.

13.15

Pupils shall be required to remain in the position specified by the master for the duration of their punishment; they shall not flinch or touch their buttocks, and shall remain silent (other than as required by the master – e.g. counting strokes). Additional strokes shall be awarded at the master’s discretion for any infringement.

13.16

At the end of the punishment, the Part 2 of the Punishment Form shall be completed, and this shall be signed by the student. A copy should be sent to the Headmaster’s Secretary, a copy should be retained by the student, and a copy may be sent to the student’s parents or guardians at the sole discretion of the master who has administered the punishment.

13.17

In conclusion: corporal punishment is an essential means of maintaining a stable and successful school environment. It will used fairly, to correct the most serious misbehaviour, in full compliance with these rules.

And she closed the book.

Sniffed.

Wiped the tears away from her cheeks.

Heart pounding.

Surely not? After a school career unblemished in any way.

But… no, she would argue. She hadn’t been feeling well. Had to pick up a prescription from the pharmacist. Her Housemaster would believe that.

Surely?…

This couldn’t happen to her.

Good girls don’t get caned…

Do they?

“Simple,” they’d said. “Our scheme gets permission, and Sergei will be a happy man. And when Sergei is happy, he takes good care of his friends. But when Sergei is unhappy…”

The silence hung in the air for a moment too long.

“Are you trying to bribe me? Or threaten me?”

A broad smile, from the dapper-suited lawyer. “Oh, Mr Jenkins. How could you possibly think that? My client is an entirely honourable man. Any… rumours.. you may have heard are entirely without foundation. You can check the records of any jurisdiction on the globe; you’ll find that my client comes up with an entirely clean bill of legal health. But I do hope that we might count on your co-operation. Oiling the wheels of local government, as they say.”

“The planning process is entirely fair and open, Mr Woods. My role is to ensure that due process is followed. As it shall be. To the letter. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think this conversation needs to come to an end.”

“Indeed. Just as you say. And the afternoon is drawing to a close. I’m sure that you have better things to occupy your time. That girl of yours: what’s her name?”

“I beg your pardon…?”

“The friend you seem to spend time with. The pretty one. I showed Sergei some photos the other day. Borough Market. He rather liked her.”

“You dare…”

“Don’t challenge me, Mr Jenkins. Sergei likes a contest. And he never loses…”

–

He’d told her, of course. Reported the incident, too. “Nothing to worry about,” his boss had assured him, not entirely convincingly. “Nothing better than gangsters, that lot.” Hardly the language of reassurance.

He’d told her that, as well. Had held her tight. Comforted, as best he could, as she trembled. As she comforted him: “We’ll be OK. It doesn’t matter.”

–

And a new tower block in the centre of Westminster was never going to get planning permission. No matter how many oligarchs, how many billionaires, how many ill-gained foreign assets it would have brought to the country.

–

“If you struggle, we’ll crease your suit,” they’d told him after they’d bundled him into the car. “Just a short drive. Relax. Just a meeting you’re required to attend.”

Across the river. Turning east. And then the tiredness, the overwhelming tiredness. Deep, deep sleep.

–

The drugs wore off to the sound of screams from next door.

Her screams.

–

The two men held him tight, arms clasped behind his back, his suit by now torn. He tried again to force the gag from his mouth, to no avail.

In front of him, in the brightly lit room, the heavy wooden table. “Oh, we won’t hurt you,” they’d told him. “Sergei understands. Knows you had a process to run. Knows it wasn’t your fault. Still, though: he’d not a happy man.”

The door opened, and they dragged her in. Naked. Sobbing.

He fought his captors; she fought theirs. These were not men to lose fights.

They pushed her over the table. Arms grabbed hers, stretching them out. Rope binding wrists, ankles. Overpowered. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Screaming, sobbing.

–

“She likes it rough, we hear,” one of them said. “Likes to be a good girl for him. Obedient. We’ll see…”

–

Six strokes, they gave her, with the fearsome cane. Hard strokes, the rod lifted high, cut down with scant regard for precisely where it landed. Each brought cries of anguish that cut him to the core. She writhed. She begged. They watched. They photographed – “For Sergei.” Ran fingers over her weals, fingers that loitered a moment too long…

And then they took up the rod once more.

Six strokes was nothing compared to a full-on whipping that followed. One man on either side of her – one left-handed, one right. Ten strokes.

Twenty, thirty…

More.

Until she stopped fighting the ropes. Stopped screaming. Stopped, even, sobbing.

Until one of them moved behind her. Unzipped himself.

Until he was done. Until his colleague wanted a turn.

Until they had broken her, utterly.

Until she could lift her eyes and, for the first time, meet his. Tears gazing at tears.

And then they untied her, leaving her slumped across the table, and let him go…

The final morning of term; excited thoughts of the holidays ahead tempered only by the thought of the long-awaited, oft-dreaded final House assembly of the academic year.

The girls of Oswald House file in, fifty or so of them, taking their places in the rows of the banked lecture hall. On the table at the front: five distinct piles of crisp papers, holding their fates.

They sit, wait. For once, there’s no need for the Head of House to call for silence as the Housemaster arrives.

His usual mix of announcements, encouragement and admonishments. His round-up of the school year now finishing, its occasional highs and inevitable lows. His best wishes to those leaving, his encouragement for the year ahead to those due back. But his girls aren’t really listening: they’re watching the piles of papers.

“Now,” he says, at long last. “It’s time to hand out your reports.”

The first pile. For those whose performance has been rated ‘Outstanding’. The smallest stack, the most sought-after. One-by-one, in alphabetical order, he reads out their names. They walk to the front – applause is appropriate for these most diligent girls, as the Housemaster shakes them by the hand and passes across each report in turn.

‘Very Good’ follows. More in this camp: hard-working, achieving good results. Smiles, back-slapping as the girls make their way in turn to the table to receive their Housemaster’s congratulations.

Three piles left. Two bringing safety. He calls out the ‘Good’ girls. Sighs of relief; nervous smiles . Good enough to see them to safety. No Housemasterial handshakes for this group: ‘Good’ is, after all, what’s expected at St. Christina’s. Par for the course, not something to be celebrated unduly.

Nigh on twenty now-terrified girls left, dreading the difference between the two remaining stacks of reports. There are more girls in the “Adequate” camp, of course. Bright girls whose results shone less luminously than they might have, mixed with those whose efforts during the year had merely sufficed.

But eyes, comforting hands, re-assuring whispers focus not on this procession, but on those few girls who realise as the list is read that the alphabet has passed them by: that they’re left in the final pile.

“I’m sorry to see that we have five girls this year whose performance has been rated as ‘Disappointing’.” He reads out their names, as if their categorisation might have escaped their notice, and asks them to stand. Almost as an aside, he passes his best wishes to the House for the summer. “And now I’d like the five of you to accompany me to my study,” before turning and leaving the room.

They stumble out of their rows, making sure they’re not left behind. He leads them apace across the sunny courtyard, up the narrow stairs. Invites them to wait in the dark corridor until he calls their name. Heads into his study alone.

They hear him inside: drawers opening, furniture scraping. Then he calls out the first name.

He tells her to leave the door ajar: “After all, you all understand why you’re here.” The conversation is quiet, too murmured for those outside to pick out the words, although the tone is quite clear enough. As is the swish through the air, and the four resounding cracks that follow.

They hear a stapler: they’ll each find that this pins a yellow form to their report, informing their parents of the punishment that had taken place, and cajoling them to ensure that they return their girl for the autumn term suitably motivated and focused.

And then the second girl replaces the first, and the third the second, and only Molly and Nicola remain. They hold hands as their predecessor takes her strokes. How hard they sound! How painful, they remember – neither girl here for the first time in this disappointing year, although both had prayed that their previous visit would be their last. Four strokes, then – to their tearful dismay – a fifth, a sixth.

And then she is out, and he pauses as if weighing up which girl to put into, and out of, her misery first.

Nicola’s name is called. Molly, left to face her fears alone, to fight the temptation to run. The lecture, once more, barely audible from inside the study. Six strokes, once again, the fifth-former’s cries clear through the open door, as Molly’s hands rub her own bottom in protective anticipation.

The stapling of the punishment notice. The muffled “Sorry, Sir.” The passing of girls in the corridors, eyes averted.

And then the final girl takes her turn, raising her skirt, bending over that dreaded chair in front of her Housemaster’s desk, a year of chiding and warnings culminating in a very different farewell to this school year than last year’s “Outstanding” result.

She sat on the edge of the hotel room bed, looking up at him, as if trying to read his mind for clues as to what might be about to happen. Her wrists were raw from the cuffs, just removed: had no-one seen them as he’d marched her in from the car, through the lobby and into the lifts? Had no-one thought to help the girl in the gingham school dress, being led through the crowd?

“So, we have an agreement. After your behaviour last Saturday, you’re going to demonstrate your obedience this evening. To show me that you can be a good girl, after all. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.” Last Saturday. Last Saturday. When she’d run from the house, from the ‘gentlemen’, from their insistent hands. Half naked, she’d not even made it to the end of the driveway by the time he’d caught her. The marks from the whipping he’d inflicted after he’d taken her home had faded from her back – but not one iota from her memory. “I want to be your good girl, sir. To make you proud of me again.”

James bent down and kissed her, surprising her with his tenderness. “I’m glad. I know you’ll be brave. And I love you.”

Loved her. Whatever that actually meant.

The knock at the door was loud, demanding. His demeanour changed, as if duty had suddenly taken over from pleasure. “Open it, and let our guest in.”

Their guest worn a mask when hosting the previous weekend’s party, but she wouldn’t forget his voice: what he’d told her to do then, calmly, softly, even as he’d abused her. Again, tonight, he was politeness incarnate. Discreet, too, as if this was their first introduction: “Good evening, young lady; how lovely to meet you.” For surely she wasn’t so forgettable, a mere few days after what had happened?

She might have guessed that it was to him that she would have had to make amends, mind.

He spoke first: “Does she understand the rules?”

“Indeed.”

The new arrival turned to the girl. “And do you?”

She gulped, her confirmation a confession of her intended compliance: “Yes, sir. I am to do whatever you tell me.”

“Good.” He removed his greatcoat, laying it neatly over the back of the desk chair, and turned back to her. He lifted her chin in his hand and raised her eyes to meet his. “Then strip.”

She hesitated – for just a fraction of a moment too long, allowing the gentlemen to exchange glances. Before she knew it, James had seized her; was pulling her to the sofa; had upended her over his knees and was spanking her so hard that the tears sprang straight to her eyes. Over her dress, incessant, insistent, and then he was lifting its hem and tugging down her knickers, baring her and grasping her wrists in his left hand as his right did its work. “It’s unfortunate, is it not, that Mr Smith has to start his evening by seeing how a badly-behaved little girl has to be punished?”

She slumped to the floor at his feet, sobbing, when he’d finished. This was not how she’d meant the evening to be; not how she’d intended to demonstrate her love, nor to make amends for having let him down the previous weekend. Having let herself down, as he had been at pains to point out.

They watched her. Let her compose herself – for a composed girl is far more cognisant of what is happening to her; of what’s about to happen.

It was Smith who picked her up – roughly, by the hair, dragging her to her feet. “I believe you were going to strip for me?”

Not daring to pause, she bent down to unbuckle her shoes. The white knee-length socks came off next; then the short cotton dress. And she thought of their agreement; of how he loved her; of how she loved him – and covered herself as best she could once her bra and knickers had joined the pile of garments on the floor.

“Hands on your head. And keep them there.” Keep them there whilst Smith inspected her; whilst he touched, stroked, his fingers circling her nipples before he squeezed. Squeezed harder. Squeezed until she could not help but cry aloud. Whilst he slapped her, hard, across the face for so doing.

He worked his way lower, feeling the warmth of her spanked cheeks, gently at first then pressing, hurting, tormenting – and then reaching between her legs. “You’re very dry, my dear. Very tight. We need to rectify that.”

He drew away, and picked the pillows from the bed, positioning them half way down the duvet. “Lie face down over them.” She obeyed without hesitation, shaking as she wondered what he had in mind, until his next instruction followed: “Now touch yourself for me.”

This time it was the unbuckling of James’s belt that greeted her momentary delay. “Please… please, sir. I’ll do it.. I’ll…”

“Indeed you will. Once I’ve whipped you. I shall teach you obedience if you’re not willing to offer it freely when it’s required of you, as you’d promised.”

He talked as he beat her, the harsh strokes applied slowly, purposefully. “She’s used to the taste of leather, you see, Mr Smith. Aren’t you, young lady?”

Through the tears: “Yes, sir.”

“Would you like to tell Mr Smith why you get the belt?”

No. No, she wouldn’t. It was too – too private. Yet she so wanted to demonstrate that she was capable of the obedience which she had pledged. “When… when… I let myself down, sir. When I break the rules we’ve agreed.”

“And…”

“And… and when you’re kind to me, sir, and try to help me to be better and…”

“…Go on…”

“… And you take down the punishment book and make me think about the things I’ve done wrong.”

“Very good.” And then he fell silent, and upped the pace, whipping the belt down ferociously until she writhed under every stroke. A pause, then a whispered question: “So are you ready to masturbate for Mr Smith?”

“Yes, sir.”

Her hand reached down to touch herself in that oh-so-familiar way. When she was in bed alone, she imagined herself doing it for James. With him watching, obeying him for the man standing next to him to see, she reached a peak quicker than she would ever have thought possible. Breathless, she curled into a ball on the bed, oblivious to their gaze.

Smith’s voice: “And now you’ll come here and make sure I’m hard, so that I can fuck you.”

“Please no…”

And then silence.

Absolute silence. Until she realised. “I didn’t mean to… Of course I will. Let me…”

Smith again. “Disobedience?”

They both lifted her to her feet this time and pulled the begging girl to the end of the bed. Ropes, wrists, ankles; pleas ignored. And then the sort of caning James had only ever given her once before, teaching her a different lesson on a different evening, that she’d never since forgotten. Eighteen strokes cut into her buttocks and thighs; the full weight of his body swinging the rattan across its target each time.

When Smith fucked her, still bound in position, it came as a relief. She was broken; needed release; needed it to be over – needed James. Sensing that, perhaps, their visitor, though forceful, was mercifully brief: taking her abruptly, thrusting against her fresh weals. Using her, for his pleasure alone. Telling her when he was done that she was a good and pretty girl.

Smith stepped aside; it was her lover’s hands who untied the knots, released her. And then, before she could turn and press into his protective body for the cuddle that she craved, it was James who bent her back over the end of the bed and roughly took her arse.

By the time he’d finished, raised her up, held her close, they were alone in the room. He led her to the bed; laid down next to her; held her close and whispered the kindest words into her ear. Reminded her of his love. Of his pride in her. Of how she was the bravest of girls.

And later, when it had fallen dark outside and she’d woken from the deepest sleep into which she’d fallen, protected in his arms, he’d helped her into a beautiful dress he’d conjured from his bag. “I suspect Mr – erm – ‘Smith’ will still be in the hotel bar, and it’d be good to introduce the two of you to each other properly at long last…”