Hello my friends (I think it's fair to call anyone who bothers to read this drivel a friend). Here's a little tale for you all; it's a bit different from my usual stuff, as the beating takes centre stage, and the background is related by the spankee (well, the girl being caned) as we proceed.
The grain of the desktop meandered, Amazon-like, across it's finely varnished surface. I traced its path, my eyes glistening with unshed tears. I was damned if I'd give Hurley the satisfaction of crying.
My fingers were wrapped around the far edge of the desk, knuckles white with the strain as I held on as if for dear life.
The nearside of the desk dug uncomfortably into my stomach, as I bent across it; my legs were columns, pushing my bottom up into a perfect curve.
Sighing I placed my cheek against the cool surface; my breasts were crushed against my blouse as I allowed the desktop to take my weight.
Even stretched as my body I was, I could not prevent my buttocks tensing beneath my short pleated skirt; I was dripping with nervous sweat and my tiny black knickers were encrusted against my behind.
The wait was eternal; I aged a lifetime, over and over. Here, I thought, was the absolute proof of reincarnation, as I relived my life time after time.
I could hear Hurley pacing the floor of her study; now and again she swished her cane through the air. It sliced through the atmosphere, like a space capsule plummeting to Earth; soon the hum of it's progress would be joined by the crack of impact.
Miss Hurley cleared her throat; I could picture her, prim and tidy, not a hair out of place, as she held the cane against her long straight grey skirt.
“Adamson, I can't tell you how disappointed I am to find myself in this position again; usually when I cane a girl for bullying that is the end of the matter. But, only 3 weeks after the last time, here we are again.”
I didn't know why she felt it necessary to go through all this again; we'd already discussed the matter at length. She told me what had been reported to her, and I explained how I had only pushed that daft bitch Jenson, and that her fall and the cut on her head were total accidents. If she hadn't done them on purpose to get at me.
That went over about as well as the Sex Pistols at a Royal Garden Party; she looked at me like I had spat on her plushly carpeted floor.
“You well know that we have no tolerance for bullying here at St Grimley's School for Girls; we have a set of rules and they are enforced strictly. I cannot see why you would think it a good idea to pick on that poor girl, after our last conversation ended so uncomfortably for you.”
Which meant that she whacked my arse last time, and now she was going to do it again.
“I dislike employing corporal punishment, especially with my senior girls, but the rules of our school do not give me any option.”
It didn't bloody feel like she disliked it, not when she was lashing that whippy stick of hers against my bottom! It seemed like she was well into it.
“Bullying is an offense, not only against the girl that you terrified and hurt, but against the student body as a whole; our pupils can only excel if they are free to attend school without fear of being violently assaulted.”
Oh fine; what about the violent assault she was about to commit? How can you teach someone that bullying is wrong by hitting them? I felt pretty damn well like I was being bullied by Miss Hurley.
“This ridiculous story that you told, that it was Jenson's fault that you gave her that vicious shove, is a cowardly lie; it seems that your previous punishment made some impression, as you seem so desperate to avoid a repeat.”
Of course I didn't want to get caned again; it bloody hurt! And it was Jenson's fault; she had made out with my boyfriend, so she owed me her lunch money for a week. That was the standard cost. Not my fault the stroppy cow refused to pay up, and then insisted that Anthony had come on to her.
“In view of all this I shall repeat the dose, and hopefully this time the lesson will sink in properly; I will have no bullying in my school.”
Yeah, unless you're the one doing it, you hypocritical cow!
“Adamson, I trust that you are prepared to take your medicine?” Great, now she thinks that she's a bloody doctor!
I assumed that this was rhetorical. It turned out that I was wrong.
“Are you ready girl?” she snapped, thrashing the air once more.
I couldn't see how anyone was ever really ready for six of the best (except maybe for Blake in 5C, who was always trying to get the boys to smack her arse) but I knew what was expected.
“Yes Miss” I piped in my most unconvincing voice; the words managing to catch in my throat and come out a bit more highly pitched than usual.
“Very well then. You will remain in place until I finish.”
I felt the stick being placed across my bottom; it brushed against me where I stuck out most, and she tapped it, two or three times, like a golfer addressing the ball with the odd practice swing.
You know that old Joni Mitchell song? You don't know what you've got 'til its gone? Well, it was like that. The absence of the cane against my bottom felt huge when she pulled back her arm.
Sound travels pretty fast, and I heard the cane swooshing towards me before I felt its impact. There was just enough time for an aborted shiver of fear before I felt its dull blow across my cheeks.
There was a moment of pressure, and then the cane was on its way back upwards. That had hurt less than I remembered.
The cane had just begun its second descent (the change in the noise it makes is unmistakeable) when the sting began to set in; a line of fire ants nibbling at a narrow strip of my behind.
I almost made the error of looking back to check what was happening, but a convincing distraction arrived just in time.
This time there was no pause before the sting took hold; it seemed to originate deep within the muscles, rather than on the surface where the cane had bitten me. The stroke had landed just below the first, but it was hard to believe they weren't just one great thick stripe.
Ah, damnit! I'd been distracted by the results of the first two strokes, and the third caught me by surprise, a sudden explosion across the dead centre of my bottom cheeks. I yelped, involuntarily, and jerked against the desk.
Shit, shit, shit! The strokes were now coming too closely together for me to process them; the initial sting of one was still flaring when the next arrived. Ever put your arse into a beehive? Me neither, but I think I have a good idea what it would feel like.
I looked at my fingers; the skin around my knuckles was cracking with the effort needed to hold on. I knew if I released the wood I'd cover my bottom with them, and that would be more trouble.
My feet did a little uncontrolled two step, and my bottom, without reference to the rest of my body, tried to beat a hasty retreat. This resulted in my frame going into an entirely futile wriggle; I must have looked like a stranded fish, struggling for breath.
That reminded me; breath! I panted; trying to distract itself from the intense burning in my bottom, my mind wandered. Do you think that birth training, with all that panting, would help make being caned easier?
My buttocks tried to suck themselves into the desk, which actually hurt more. Caned muscles really don't want to tense up!
Holy shit! The last stroke felt harder, and cut across the first two. How the hell had she poured lava onto my bottom, and so accurately?
This time I did the whole lot; gasping, panting, shuffling and jigging.
“Get up. And keep still Adamson.”
I obeyed half of this; I jumped to my feet, and my hands grabbed at my scalded arse, while my feet executed a creditable Irish jig.
Hurley let me get away with this for a few seconds; I didn't care for the smile she had on her face as she watched me struggling to control myself.
“Right, I'll just enter that in the book.” she said, reaching for the large red volume (bet it wasn't as red as my arse!) where she recorded her pupils' punishments. She composed a line of small neat letters, and then closed the book again.
“Okay Adamson; you may go. And remember, I don't expect to see you here again. You must learn to treat others as you'd wish to be treated. Go on now, back to class.”
I turned and shuffled through her solid oak door, closing it quietly behind me. Outside I repeated my jig, and devoted a couple of minutes to a firm but gentle massage of my hindquarters. I had PE later and all of the girls would want to see the result of my visit to the Head.
So then, I reflected, what had I learned? Well, if Miss Hurley believed that you should do to others what you wanted them to do to you, she was a closet masochist! And when I got Jenson back I needed to be subtle about it.
Oh yeah, I'd learned that lesson alright.