Diary - Chapter 1

Blood was rushing to my face. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The girl was bending over, elbows on a small chair, and settling her feet well apart. Miss Harding lifted the girl’s skirt, pulling it up and across her back. What this revealed of the girl’s anatomy staggered me. I eased my shirt collar, which had become uncomfortably hot. My legs trembled and I wanted to sit down. No, I must stand quite still, careful not to distract my Headmistress in her work.

Sometimes in the playground a girl would show a glimpse of knicker, so I knew this school insisted on dark blue. But here was being displayed the whole of a girl’s backside, mostly covered by blue fabric, but doing nothing to hide the size and shape of a distinctly attractive behind. But I hated this whole business.

I was suddenly brought out of my shock by a brisk command. My mouth had dropped open, but I pulled myself together and came back into the world. “Mr. Sellars, will you please fetch the cane from my desk!”

I hurried over and picked the thing up. I’d never handled one before, though I had been on the receiving end a few times in my own schooldays. It was very light, and I marvelled that such a wisp of a thing could be so painful. I quickly handed it to my boss. She turned back to the girl, stretched out the cane and started the punishment.

It was only four strokes, delivered not too fiercely, but the effect on me was volcanic. Never in a thousand years would I have expected to witness anything of the sort. Four strokes whacked into that padded rear, and my eyes were on stalks. My heart beat ten to the dozen, and I worried the Head would hear it and conclude I wasn’t up to my job. After all, this was part of my duty, and I must show no sign of confusion. This would be an everyday scene, and I must appear unmoved and totally in control. I fought my emotions and stood frozen against the wall.

“Stand up and pull your skirt down, Atherton,” ordered the Head. Before I could register what was happening the girl responded, said something to the Head and fled from the room, holding her blazer.

I was shaking all over.

I was very young to be Deputy Head of such a school; a large mixed Grammar School with a distinguished history. I was only three years out of University, but a combination of a great degree from a top Uni and good interview technique had got me the job. It helped, no doubt, that the school was looking for young blood, after a bad period when both Head and Deputy were elderly. The place had become very slack, and exam results had chased ill discipline in a downward spiral. The pupils were surly and the staff mutinous. The previous year a young Headmistress had been appointed with a remit drastically to improve discipline, then to work on academic standards. By all accounts she had done pretty well, but now that I had replaced the elderly Deputy Head it was up to the two of us to restore the school to its former glory.

I had a thousand things to learn, and two thousand tasks to perform. The Head was patient with me and we planned our responsibilities together. My main task was to organise and support the staff, ensuring they controlled their classes and helped maintain discipline throughout the school. I laid down the rules, published them, and listed the penalties (decided by the Head and I together) for each type of transgression. So every pupil in the school knew the penalty for poor work (lines), unruly behaviour or inattention (detention). Bad cases earned the cane. The cane would always be used for disrespect of any staff member. Bullying was the thing we were most determined to stamp out, and all staff were instructed to be vigilant. The penalties, too, reflected our hard-line approach.

I saw the Head, Miss Harding, several times a day, and when the other staff and pupils were on their way home we always met in her study to review the events of the day and to plan for the next. It wasn’t until the fourth day of term that she mentioned the cane. “A girl from the lower sixth is coming in at four o’clock. You must be here. I want you always to be present when I’m caning someone.” I was very busy at the time, and gave the matter no thought , except that I knew to be there on time.

When I arrived the Head gave quick instructions. “Open that cupboard, will you! There’s a small piece of carpet at the bottom. Fetch it out, please, and spread it in the centre of the study.” No explanation of just WHY it had to be there. I realised later that once in a while someone would lose control of the bladder, and the old bit of carpet would be thrown out and another used in its place. So a visit to the Head’s study was known as being “on the carpet.”

“Now put that chair next to the carpet, there!” I carried the small chair from its place against the wall. It was evident that the pupil would be expected to bend over in front of the chair, using it for support.

I had barely finished when there was a timid knock at the door. A loud “Yes!” from the Head, and a girl entered, obviously reluctant. She approached the Head’s desk and stood, hands clasped meekly in front of her, eyes cast down. She was made to read out the note from the form teacher. It turned out she had missed homework deadlines in three subjects on successive days, in spite of warnings. Miss Harding lost no time. “I’m disappointed in you, Atherton. You’re a bright girl, but lazy. Well, I’ll teach you today what happens to lazy people in this school. I’m going to flog you. Onto the carpet with you, now!” There seemed nothing for me to do, so I stood there feeling useless.

When it was all over I sat as usual beside her desk and we started the routine business of the day. My shaking wasn’t noticed, or so I hoped. Before long I relaxed, trying not to think of the beating I’d just witnessed. When our business was over I stood up. “Just a minute, John. I’d like to discuss the use of corporal punishment here.”

With a sense of dread I returned to my seat, visualising the young bottom presented for punishment. I listened, willing myself not to reveal my disquiet. “In the last year I’ve caned nearly a hundred people. The frequency did decrease during the year, but not every child has got the message yet. Too many people are getting away with slack work (you saw Atherton just now) and there is as much bullying, I’m sure, not to mention disrespect for staff members. Only a determined effort by staff will correct the situation, and I expect you to drill the staff and see that any transgressors are sent to us for punishment. If we don’t “spare the rod” we will win through yet. But your efforts are central to discipline, and I need your support.”

I saw her point, and promised to do all I could.

I asked how many of those taking the cane were boys, expecting it would be nearly all of them. “About two thirds are boys,” I marvelled that girls could be so naughty that thirty-odd needed to be beaten in a year. But Miss Harding soon put me straight. “Girls, especially gangs of girls, can be worse than boys if you let the discipline decay.”

The more contact I had with Miss Harding, the more I admired her. She spoke well, was tall, nearly as tall as I, and carried herself erect. She just looked to be in command. She dressed smartly, usually a black suit over a crisp white blouse, skirt below the knee and smart shoes and stockings. Following her example I started wearing a suit myself, and made sure my shoes were immaculate and my shirt clean.

Once the Headmistress had briefed me on any aspect of my job she left me to get on with it. I had some classroom work, but I spent a lot of time prowling the corridors listening out for trouble which might indicate a slack teacher, and during leisure time I supported the duty staff members controlling playground activities and mealtimes. They seemed to welcome my presence, and I sensed they were all tightening up on discipline. One teacher was having trouble with unruly kids, and, hearing a lot of noise when passing her classroom, I knocked loudly on the door and entered. Three boys were out of their places and making most of the noise. They tried to run back to their seats, but I sent them off to wait outside the Head’s study. The teacher was in tears, and I lectured the class in behaviour to give her a chance to recover.

As soon as I could leave her, I followed the boys. They stood quietly enough outside the study, but I sensed a certain arrogance still. I knocked and entered the study. Miss Harding looked up from her papers and I explained about the three boys waiting outside.

“Very well, we know what to do, don’t we John!”

I pulled the carpet from the cupboard.

“OK,” she said. “Lets have them in!”

Lined up in front of her desk, they were noticeably less sure of themselves. The Head stood up and walked round them, lecturing, leaving them in no doubt of her determination to stamp out this kind of behaviour. She spoke quietly, but in the silence of the study she was most impressive.

As two boys were sent to wait in the passage I prepared the carpet and the chair. She told me which one of her collection of a dozen canes was needed. “Take off your jacket and trousers, boy!” she commanded. I was staggered that boys were made to undress. However, the boy hurried to obey. He obviously knew better that to annoy her further.

“Bend over!” The boy bent over and placed his hands on the chair. “Bend over further! Place your elbows on the seat!.” To do this the boy moved his feet further apart, but he seemed to know that his legs needed to be straight. Once he was in position, the final dreaded words. “I’m going to give you six.”

This was punishment of quite a different order from the girl’s four strokes a few days before. The boy took the punishment without crying out, but he bent his legs a couple of times, prompting a sharp “Legs straight! Stand still!” from the Head.

After the six the boy was told to stand up and put his clothes on. It took a minute or so for him to struggle into his trousers, urged on by the Head. He rushed out of the study still putting on his jacket.

“Next!” cried Miss Harding.

The second boy took his punishment well. He was a sturdy boy, and no stranger to the cane it seemed. But the last of the three had more trouble. He stood up after the very first stroke, both hands covering his bottom. “If you stand up again before this is over I shall award you an extra stroke. Now get down over that chair, and don’t move.” He managed another three, jerking and wailing at each stroke. But at number five he leapt upright, gasping and almost sobbing. The Head was furious.

“Right, my lad,” she said. “I warned you. So now you can bend over again and take the extra stroke. And after that you will stay in position and wait for number seven. Its up to you. If you stand up again there will be more strokes. I’ve got all night. If you won’t play by the rules you will suffer, I assure you. Well? What about it? Will you stay in place until I’ve given you the last two strokes?”

He just about managed it, jerking alarmingly, as though he was about to straighten up. But in the end she let it go and send him off as soon as he had dressed.

When I got home that night I spent some time analysing my reaction to the caning episode. Emotionally I had coped much better this time. Caning boys seemed only right and proper in those days, and it was just part of my job to be there. But I worried about my feelings during the caning of the girl. Why had that affected me so? Little did I know how much more I would be disturbed, and in the very near future too.

There had been rumours that the bullying we feared so much was still happening. The whole staff were alerted, but nothing came to light. I roamed the school more and more, watching out for boys who might be swaggering and boasting, and others who looked distressed and frightened. I looked in vain.

Every school has its out-of-the-way corner, where pupils can misbehave in their own ways, far from the sight of any staff member. In some schools it was “behind the bike sheds.” I was about to discover our equivalent.

At the back of the school building, two spurs to the main block formed a small courtyard. The three walls enclosing the yard happened all to be windowless, with the exception of one small window on the first floor; a window allowing a tiny amount of light to the stationery store. One morning I happened to be there with the school secretary. No records had been kept, which had resulted in the over-ordering of some items and shortages of others. The first task was to do a stock check, and while the two of us were immersed in the task I heard some shouting and screaming in the yard below. I could see some sort of scuffling going on, so I left the secretary doing the job, and rushed downstairs and round the back of the building.

When I arrived at the scene it was obvious what had been happening. Four older girls had a younger one on the ground. The poor kid was sobbing pitiably, and her clothes were dirty and dishevelled. This was the bullying I’d been searching for, but it amazed me that it was girls who were responsible. I took the names of the four older girls, telling them to wait outside the Head’s study, and helped the youngster to see the nurse in the sickroom. As soon as I could I left the sickroom and hurried back to confront Miss Harding.

The four girls were indeed at the door, and I pushed past them and into the study. The Head was interviewing someone, but one look at my face, and she ushered the visitor out. I blurted out the facts, and she wasted no time in bringing the miscreants into the study. There was no point in denying anything. The girls shuffled their feet and looked at the floor. I knew they were to be caned and my heart was racing. Miss Harding read the riot act. She made it absolutely clear what she felt about bullying, and that she was determined to stamp it out. The girls were not surprised when they were told the beating would be severe.

“Remove your blazers and skirts!” she commanded. She spoke quietly, but there was menace in her speech and the girls were clearly afraid. They hastily took off their clothes, and stood with hands clasped in front of themselves, still looking at the floor. “Now all of you stand facing the wall!”

I was goggling at the four rumps clad in blue knickers, and to my shame I had to be reminded to fetch the carpet from the cupboard, and set the chair in place. I pulled the jangling pile of canes from the cupboard and spread them on the desk. Miss Harding selected a fearsome one, long and rather thicker than the others. It was a darker brown than the rest, and less flexible.

The Head flicked the cane at the leg of the nearest girl. “You! Come out her!” The girl reluctantly came out and stood in front of the chair, and when the order came she bent over slowly. My mouth was suddenly dry, and I couldn’t swallow. Miss Harding lost no time and reached out with the cane, measuring her distance. “Eight strokes!” Without delay she drew back the cane, twisting her body round to the right. With a great convulsive effort she unwound her body, swinging her arm the long way round and at the same time uncocking her wrist to impart the maximum speed to the cane-head. It was an explosive effort, and the effect when the cane struck the target was explosive too. And noisy. In the confined space of the room it was like a pistol shot.

The girl was hard. She was in her final year, a stocky games-playing type, and she suffered in silence as long as she could. But with two strokes still to go she lost her composure and sank to her knees, both hands clasping her rear. Dignity completely gone, she rolled on her side, sobbing bitterly.

It took some time for the Head and I to get her to her feet and coax her to bend over the chair again. At the seventh stroke she stood up, and was warned that if she stood up after the eighth it would not count. The girl seemed to understand this, and after a pause bent over for the last stroke. Miss Harding threw everything she had into the stroke, and with a great effort the girl stayed in place until given the order to stand and resume her place facing the wall, shaking and weeping.

The second girl, Elizabeth, I knew. She was in my final year English class. Not my favourite pupil; somehow sullen and uncooperative, but I had not suspected her of bullying. Her face was white as she came out to the chair. She screamed at the first stroke, bringing one futile hand to rub her bottom. At the second she stood up and refused to bend over again. It took a couple of minutes for the Head to persuade her that this beating was inevitable, and that there was no alternative but to take the eight strokes.

Until now I had been a mere spectator. But now I was required to take part. Miss Harding instructed me to stand the other side of the chair, and to lean over Elizabeth holding her shoulders. When the third stroke was delivered Elizabeth gave an upward jerk which I was quite unable to stop. I pulled her back over the chair. Elizabeth would not bend over properly, and only put her hands on the chair. The Head nevertheless swung the cane quickly. This time I had lowered my body so that my chest was pressing down on the girl’s back, making it much harder for her to jerk upwards. I held her arms, and although she struggled I was able to prevent her from standing up. The Head got in two more savage cuts, now very close to my head. It was unnerving. Then the struggling was too much for me, and Elizabeth twisted sideways out of my grasp. She was shrieking and sobbing. It seemed ages before we could get her quiet and bent over the chair again. I bore down on her back again and held the bucking figure as firmly as I could. Two more strokes were delivered before Elizabeth once more twisted out of my grasp. She lay on her side on the floor, curled up into a ball, yelling her head off. It was ages before we could quieten her and prepare her for the eighth stroke plus one which the Head was determined to give her for failing to stay in place.

At last we managed it, but there were still two miscreants to go. Miss Harding suggested we try something different this time. She made me sit on the chair, a light upright one without arms. The next girl stood in front of me. She bent over and placed her hands on my thighs. I had to slip my hands under her armpits and clasp them together above her back. Our heads were very close together, and I was very disturbed at the intimacy.

At first it worked better, and four strokes were administered before the girl collapsed at the knees, sinking to the floor, and pulling me over with her. She stayed there sobbing for some time before we could resume the caning. Eventually she too got nine nasty strokes. I imagined the buttocks would be horribly marked after such a beating, and when I looked at the three girls facing the wall, the ends of some of the stripes were visible below the knickers. Within minutes they had turned first red then purple.

The last girl took even longer to be flogged. She broke away after every stroke, and on each occasion it took minutes to coax her back into place. She was digging her nails like claws into my thighs. The pain was excruciating, and it was all I could do to stay in place myself. Afterwards we realised it had taken well over an hour to deal with them.

When the four bullies had dressed and been sent on their way, we tidied the study and sat, exhausted, and talked over the terrible events we had just endured.

“Why do the boys and girls both have to remove their clothes?” I asked.

“Well, the girls certainly do, because if we caned over their skirts any cane-strokes falling near the bottom of their buttocks would hit a part of the skirt hanging freely. Most of the energy of the cane would be absorbed by the skirt. It wouldn’t do at all.”

“I see that,” I said, “but what about the boys? If they are bending well over, the trousers are tight against their skin.”

“Ah, yes!” replied Miss Harding. “But the girls would be most aggrieved if we made them undress but not the boys. Fairness is everything at their age, you know.”

I quite understood all that. Silly of me to ask!

“But that episode was most unsatisfactory,” she added. “We can’t have that again. I could see you were having the utmost difficulty in holding those girls still, and you shouldn’t have to do it.” I agreed wholeheartedly.

“We must find a way of securing the ones who can’t or won’t stay bending over,” she continued. “Will you put some thought to it, please?”

I did indeed put some thought to the problem. That evening I thought of nothing else, and went to bed still worrying. When I woke next morning I had an idea. I would go into the gym, where I expected to find some apparatus which might provide the answer.

The two teachers who ran the gym were helpful when I explained the problem. They showed me the vaulting horse. It was a box raised off the floor by four legs which splayed out to make the contraption very stable. The top part was padded and covered in leather. Constant use and the sweat from countless hands had made it shiny.

The young gym mistress, Carol, laughingly invited me to try bending over it, which I did. It was far too high, even for me, but the legs were telescopic, so we lowered the horse and tried again. I stood in the middle and bent over, keeping my feet on the floor. It was very uncomfortable as I couldn’t reach the floor with my hands, and the blood rushed into my head.

“Why don’t you stand at the end,” suggested Robert, the male teacher. “Lay your body along the horse.”

That was much better. I laid my body flat along the horse. It was remarkably comfortable. While lying there I started to think about how we might secure someone over the horse so that they couldn’t interrupt the beating by standing up or rolling sideways off the horse.

“There’s an old horse in the storeroom,” said Robert. “Maybe it’s in good enough condition?” We pulled it out, brushing off some of the dust. The leather top was somewhat worn, and the whole thing looked rather sorry, but I thought it would be ideal for the job, albeit needing some work.

They helped me move the horse to the Head’s study, and I spent most of the weekend working on it. The telescopic legs needed cleaning and oiling, and I gave them a lick of paint. The leather I treated with copious quantities of oil which I bought at the local saddle shop, and although it still looked old and used, I thought the horse really looked quite smart. A glorious smell of leather filled the room, and I resolved to use oil on the horse every couple of weeks.

The last job was to devise a way of securing the miscreant in place. I bought a couple of leather belts, identical, and cut them so that they were about the right length. I used the buckle end of one, and secured it with screws to the side of the horse. I discarded the buckle on the other belt, and screwed the belt to the other side of the horse. I tried to judge it so that with a body lying over the horse I would be able to buckle the two parts together over the top.

The leather was somewhat stiff, so to make it easier to use I put more oil on the belts. Now it was ready to show to my Head.

On Monday morning I was waiting outside Miss Harding’s study when she arrived. When we entered the room we were met by the wonderful aroma of well-conditioned leather.

“My, you’ve been hard at work this weekend,” she said.

“A labour of love,” I replied, immediately regretting my words.

She looked at me hard. I thought she was going to say something, but she changed her mind. I demonstrated the horse, standing at one end and bending over to lay my body along the oiled surface. Suddenly I knew what I wanted most in the world. I wanted to submit myself to my glorious Headmistress. Submit by removing my trousers and offering my backside for a caning. Preferably a severe caning which would test my courage. I wanted to feel the power of this woman whom I was beginning to worship. But how could I bring this about? It seemed impossible.

I was brought back to earth by a question. What was the buckle system for? How did it work? I explained how the two straps were passed over my back and buckled together. She tried it. I felt the leather tighten across my back, and had a moment of panic when I realised that I was helpless. Otherwise I was very comfortable, the padded surface being kind to my body, and the smell of leather was a delight.

When Miss Harding had walked round me, inspecting my handiwork with approval, she released me and I stood up. “Yes, I like it John,” she said. “You’ve worked hard on that, I can see. It does you great credit.”

Later that day we had cause to use my new horse. A boy had been cheeky to his form teacher, and was on the carpet for six of the best. At four o’clock I was in the study fetching out the old bit of carpet and preparing a selection of canes. The boy came in to be roundly chided by Miss Harding, and was soon undressed and face down over the horse. I fastened the straps over his back, not too tightly, but I was satisfied he would remain solidly in place.

What I had not realised was that he could still interrupt the caning. He could (and did after the third stroke) bend his knees so that his feet came up to shield his backside. Miss Harding had to stop and order the boy to put his feet back on the floor on pain of extra strokes.

However, he had another trick. After the fifth stroke he reached back with one hand, twisting his body, so that he covered part of his rump. He got an extra stroke for that, but when the boy had gone we talked it over and decided more straps were needed. So next day, in the lunch break, I was back shopping for belts, and I fitted them that evening.

The idea was that each leg would be secured to one of the splayed legs of the horse. It meant the legs would be spread well apart, but that seemed not to matter. We had agreed that the arms were a bigger problem. If a pupil tried to bring an arm back it would be my job to hold the wrists.

When I showed Miss Harding my handiwork next morning, she was very pleased. “Yes, that should do the trick,” she said. “I look forward to trying it out in earnest.” Then, seemingly as an afterthought she said, “John, you’ve done well so far this term, and I’m especially pleased with the spare time you put in with the punishment horse. I’d like to reward you by taking you for a meal at the Italian restaurant in town. Would you like that? Yes? Well, tonight, then, at seven o’clock.”

I was pleased at the prospect of an evening with a woman I so admired, and nervous, like a kid on his first date. I bathed and shaved, dressing as smartly as my limited wealth allowed, and I was waiting for her in the restaurant. We chatted over a glass of wine, mostly about school affairs, and it wasn’t until the meal was over that the conversation turned to the horse. We had downed a bottle of wine by that time, and I was much less constrained. Miss Harding talked well, and had long ago put me at my ease. Off guard, even! In reply to some close questioning I heard myself admitting my longing to be lying prone on the horse, legs fastened apart, submitting to a caning.

She smiled. “You know, John, I’ve been well aware of that for some time. Those beatings we have to give; they get to you, don’t they? I’ve seen you watching me.”

I had to admit it. I was horrified to have revealed myself to this woman. Perhaps she would decide I was unfit to carry out my duties. Would it mean the sack?

I tried to explain that it wasn’t that I enjoyed seeing the pupils caned. It was later, at night when thinking about it all, that I longed to be thrashed myself. I didn’t add that my longings involved Miss Harding. She must be the one to apply the cane. My face was burning. She looked at me steadily and I wished I were anywhere but here.

“I think something might be done.” I could hardly believe my ears. “Yes, John, and I would like to thrash you.” My mouth dropped open and a wave of sexual excitement flooded over me. “Lets fix a date,” she continued. “How about Friday? I suggest you go home promptly after school and come back to the school at seven. There’ll be nobody else about at that time. And I’ll strap you over the horse and flog you. Is that a date?”

I was flabbergasted.

On Friday evening I let myself into the school in good time. I had never been so nervous. She was waiting for me. The curtains were drawn, and she had set out the room for me. The carpet was in place at the end of the horse, and several canes lay on Miss Harding’s great desk. My mouth was dry and I hoped I wouldn’t have to speak.

“Now, my boy,” she said. “So you’ve been having naughty thoughts, have you?”

I stood before her great desk feeling very exposed. She rose to her feet and walked round the desk. Stood close behind me. “I’m going to punish you. The cane! You are going to bare your tight little bottom, and I’m going to apply the cane, full strength, until it’s striped and ridged. And I’m going to love every moment.”

I was excited when I entered the room, but these words were so erotic for me that I almost came in my pants. I wished I could turn and look at her.

“Turn to face me, John. That’s good. Now you must obey me tonight. You must put yourself in my hands. You will do anything I ask. Immediately. No delay, just as if you were an obedient child. We’ll start now. Take off all you clothes! Yes, all of them. Start with your shoes and socks, then please remove every garment.”

I did as she asked. I gasped when she told me to remove all my clothes. I had imagined she would make me remove my trousers, and had put on a clean pair of underpants. But I knew better than to protest, so I hurriedly stripped. I was very excited sexually, and taking off my underpants proved difficult. My engorged prick caught in the cloth and took time to disentangle. When I had slipped the wretched garment over my feet I straightened up and faced her. I was embarrassed about my erection, and clasped my hands in front of it, in a vain effort to conceal.

“Take your hands away, and put them on your head,” she ordered. “That’s better. Lets have a proper look at you!” She walked round me. She had picked up a cane from her desk, a small thin one which didn’t look too fierce. I wondered if that was the one she intended to use on me. I’d heard children discussing canes, and some of them thought the thin ones were the worst. She ran the tip of the cane over my chest, stopping at each nipple, flicking at them, which caused me to jump. I was humiliated and thrilled at the same time. She went behind me and touched the cane on my rump. She flicked the cane at me, digging the tip into my buttocks. My skin was becoming ultra-sensitive. The more gently she touched me the more the sensation and the prouder my cock crowed. I thought of the caning to come, and shuddered. It was what I wanted, but I was afraid.

I looked at my tormentor. Miss Harding wore her usual formal skirt, black, reaching just below the knee. The usual black stockings or tights and polished black shoes with moderately high heels. In the warm study she had removed her jacket, and I admired the crisp white blouse tightly hugging her upper body. I realised two nipples were pushing at the flimsy fabric, and she must be wearing no bra. Had I been more experienced in such matters I would have realised those nipples must be large and hard to deform the blouse so obviously, and I would have guessed she was as sexually aroused as I.

“Its time for your flogging, John. Please go over to the horse and place yourself over it.” Polite and formal!

I turned and walked across the room. The smell of leather was more obvious in that corner of the room. I laid my body on the leather surface. It was cool to my chest. I spread my legs apart, with my ankles close to the horse’s legs, to which I assumed Miss Harding would secure me. My cock was deflating fast but was still uncomfortable against the horse, so I pulled my hips back a couple of inches, causing my backside to jut out even more. She fastened the straps over my back first, pulling firmly on the buckle. When this was secure I tested the strap, trying to push upwards into it. There was a moment of panic when I realised I could move very little inside the strapping. I squirmed against the leather strap. It was oddly exciting. She crouched down behind me and fixed my ankles to the horse. It was disturbing to have her working so close behind me, especially as my buttocks and everything between them were exposed to her view.

I had another moment of panic when I remembered I needed to relieve myself. Too late for that now!

“Are you comfortable, John?” she asked.

It seemed an odd question to me, but I said, “Yes, thank you ma’am.”

I heard her walking over to the desk and rummaging through the bundle of canes. They rattled loudly in the silence of the room. She found one that suited the occasion, and came back to me. I realised I could watch her. There was a full-length mirror on the wall, in which Miss Harding checked her appearance before leaving for assembly or meetings. The horse stood almost in front of the mirror, so that when Miss Harding took up her position opposite my left hip I could see her perfectly. I folded my arms across the horse and rested my chin on them. And watched her. She told me later that she had arranged it so that she could see my face in the mirror.

“I’m going to give you twelve strokes, John.” Twelve! I hadn’t given thought to how many, nor even to how hard the strokes would be. But she had chosen a big cane, I could see that. I had every reason to believe she would make each stroke as severe as possible. A dozen was a stiff punishment by school standards; more than we ever gave the pupils. I was in for it, no mistake!

“But I shall pause after eight, John, to give you a rest. And we’ll have a little chat,”

With that she stretched out the cane and touched my exposed rear. A new thrill shot through me. I watched as she drew back the cane, turning her body, and I watched as she unleashed the first stroke.

The action was superb. Her hips twisted slowly to the right, and suddenly her body exploded into action. The tight blouse was alive as the body beneath thrashed across just in front of her arm. The swish and the crack were almost simultaneous, and the shock was huge. There was a pause before the pain hit me. For a moment I could see and hear nothing as my senses were submerged by the pain. Emotions flooded over me. Emotions of fear, panic, surprise, anguish, but above all admiration for the wonderful woman who was controlling me so beautifully.

As my eyes swam back into focus I watched her. She was looking at my bottom, preparing for the next stroke. There was to be no rest, no period of recovery. I was about to be struck again. I looked at her blouse. I knew instinctively that if I concentrated on Miss Harding’s breasts it would help me through the beating. Unwittingly she was presenting me with the most erotic images of my life, and the images overwhelmed me. As she moved the cane against my buttocks her arm caused the right breast to quiver. The tightness of the blouse made the slightest movement obvious to me, and I loved it.

But when her whole body convulsed into action those breasts were alive, swinging wildly across the inside of the blouse. So intent was I on watching the frantic motion that I hardly noticed the pain. The shock was renewed, and as I recovered my senses and awareness returned I slowly realised my buttocks were aflame. The pain gradually subsided, but long before it had reached manageable levels the third stroke arrived. I hadn’t been watching her, and I sensed the full extent of the pain. There was no dull impact of a heavy object. The pain was pure sting, like a thousand bees attacking at once. I was sure she had cut me. Was I bleeding? She said nothing; just concentrated on my behind, tapping gently with the cane, taking aim, settling herself, composed, upright, smart, elegant, beautiful, wonderful. A goddess! Of that I was sure.

But I must concentrate. I must watch her blouse and the movement beneath. Only that way could I survive the next few strokes. Only then would the punishment be bearable. Just in time my eyes cleared properly, and I gazed at her. I saw her body explode into action again, and it was magnificent. The notion she was hurting me had gone. Now I just wanted to watch my darling tormentor. Tap, tap, the slow twist to the right, the splendid explosion of her body, and I was in heaven.

By concentrating hard I managed to take the eight strokes. True to her word Miss Harding stopped work and came to my end of the horse. She squatted onto her heels, her head only inches from my face. “Thank you,” I tried to say, but my mouth was dry and words would not come.

She put a hand to the side of my face, and I realised it was wet. Had I been weeping, like a small child? “My poor darling,” she said. My heart filled with warmth for her. There was kindness in her voice. Was there also affection? I felt so very close to her at that moment. “You were very brave,” she said.

I managed to say something banal; I don’t know what. Gradually we started to talk, as I recovered a little from shock. I managed to thank her, managed to say how profoundly satisfying was the beating. How superb she looked when wielding the cane. She reminded me there were four strokes still to come. Offered to release me straight away if I thought I couldn’t manage any more. Her offer was tempting for a moment, but I knew I deeply desired to complete the full dozen. Though grateful for the intermission, I wanted her to beat me again. I wanted to watch her body again in motion.

I don’t know how I managed to be so forward, but I heard myself telling Miss Harding how I had watched her blouse, and how moved and comforted I had been to watch the quivering and shaking of her breasts.

Suddenly ashamed and fearful of what she must think of me, I buried my face in my hands. Unable to look at her, I listened for words of reproof. Anger, even. When she said nothing, and I was able to look up again, she was smiling at me. And I realised she was sliding the blouse off her shoulders. I could not believe how beautiful she was. I had never seen a woman’s naked breasts before, and the intimacy of her presence overwhelmed me.

“There,” she whispered in my ear. “Will that make it better for you?” She rose to her feet. “Time for the last four, my dear!”

I watched the beautiful creature turn her back on me and I watched in the mirror as she resumed her place alongside my hips. She picked up the cane and reached out to touch me. She shuffled her feet to find the comfortable stance. She pulled back the cane and struck me with all her strength. It was magnificent. I can’t describe to you the erotic effect as the breasts slashed from right to left. After the cane had struck I saw the breasts swing back, quivering and shaking, and it was time to twist away for the next stroke.

I remember no pain from those last four strokes. I watched in a trance, a state of joy in which there was no suffering. Her breasts were superb.

When it was all over my darling put down the cane. She touched my bruised skin. I was coming out of my trance, and I realised my backside was on fire, but the magic touch of her hand made the pain trivial. She crouched and released my ankles. Next the strap over my back was released. I watched in the mirror, intoxicated by the sight of her nakedness. I lifted myself off the horse, moving slowly. Miss Harding took my arm and helped steady me. My legs were trembling.

She put a hand behind my head and pulled my face towards hers. She kissed me on the lips. “There, there! Well done! You took that splendidly,” she whispered. “You’re very brave, my dear.” She kissed me again, very gently. Her other hand slipped down to my tender buttocks, which she stroked. “And what have we here?” Her other hand she brought down to my prick, which had started to engorge again. She grasped it, and although her grip was gentle my excitement surged and my prick grew stronger. “Oh dear, we’d better attend to that, hadn’t we!” she said.

Keeping hold of my prick she guided me over to the long leather sofa. Sweeping a few books from it, she encouraged me carefully to lie down on my back, and she proceeded to massage my cock, which by this time was rampant. In seconds I came all over her hands, mess everywhere. Buckets of it! She fetched a towel from her private bathroom and cleaned me up as best she could.

The next day Miss Harding took me to the Italian restaurant in the town and gave me a slap-up meal. As an impecunious young man living alone I much appreciated the food, but the intimacy with this beautiful woman was the main attraction for me.

Afterwards as we finished the second bottle of wine I was feeling very relaxed. We had talked all evening about our adventure in her study, and she had removed all my fears and embarrassments. Or maybe the wine had. But I was surprised when she brought up a new concept.

“John,” she said, leaning forward across the table. “I feel much closer to you now. We have shared a very special experience, one quite out of the ordinary, and I think it has changed our relationship.”

I couldn’t see where she was heading, and kept quiet.

After a pause, she said, “I want you to use my Christian name in future, when we are by ourselves. Of course, when others are present, especially children, you will have to call me Miss Harding as always. But when we are alone, dining out, or alone in my office, then I want you to call me Joan.”

I was amazed. Amazed and delighted. This was a privilege I had not expected. It was a great honour, and I told her so.

“Very well, then,” she said. “That’s agreed.”

“Thank you very much,” I replied. “I agree. . . er. . . Joan.”

We both laughed. It would be strange at first, but no doubt I would soon get used to it.

On Monday morning Joan made no mention of our caning experience, but I managed to call her “Joan” a couple of times, though it still seemed strange to be so familiar with this fine lady. She was very matter-of-fact, and informed me that in three weeks time she would be away on a course for a whole week. I would be in complete charge of the school.

“I want to talk about discipline, John,” she said. “As you know, I’m very keen that every offender should be punished the same day as his offence. Or hers! So anyone needing the cane must report to you, in this office, at four o’clock, and you will carry out the caning yourself. Is that clear?”

I confirmed that it was very clear. My heart sank. Carrying out a punishment flogging was not something that I relished.

“But you must have someone with you in the study as witness,” she continued.

Mrs Joyce, the Head’s secretary was in the room at the time, with a letter for signature. “I’ll volunteer for that if you like, Headmistress,” she said. She immediately coloured up, looking embarrassed. “It will save you having to fetch in a teacher each time. And I don’t mind staying back a few minutes.”

Joan looked hard at her for a moment. “Very well, Mrs Joyce,” she said eventually. “That’s very kind of you. Is that all right by you, John?”

I agreed, and Mrs Joyce turned and walked to her door. I watched as she walked away. She was considerably shorter than the Head, and a bit dumpy. She was older, too, with children at college or working. Adults, really. Mrs Joyce had the broad hips of a woman who had given birth more than once, and I admired the way her bottom jigged as she entered her office. She was a highly experienced secretary, a great help to the Head, and had proved useful to me on more occasions than one. A real treasure!

When she had gone, Joan explained that I needed to be taught how to use the cane, and it was essential to practise. “Will you please stay behind tonight after school? We’ll go through it all.”

At four o’clock we had our usual meeting, reviewing the events of the day, and then she went to the cupboard and brought out one of the canes.

For the next twenty minutes she talked about the cane. She explained the safety requirements. Essentially this involved making the miscreant bend at the hips and the teacher swinging the cane almost horizontally. “Most inexperienced people imagine we lift the cane in the air and bring it down vertically. Not so! If you do that the cane might strike the spine, and that is very dangerous. Do you understand?”

Once she had pointed this out it was obvious. Even so, I was glad to have proper instruction.

She placed a cushion on the horse, and fluffed it so that it presented a rounded shape to me. “Now have a try,” she said. “Imagine this is an errant pupil’s bottom, and use the cane on it.”

I picked up the cane and did as she said. It was a strange experience; one I hadn’t expected. At least not so early in my career. I copied Joan’s action and tapped the cushion, measuring my distance. I drew back the cane a short way and hit the cushion, though not at all hard. It seemed easy enough, and I did it again, more vigorously. Each time I swung the cane back further and further, and managed to hit the cushion right in the centre every time.

It wasn’t good enough for Joan, though, and she made me strike much harder. Accuracy was not so simple, either, when using full force, and it was obvious that I needed practice. So at four o’clock every afternoon I spent five minutes thwacking the cushion in Joan’s office until we were both satisfied that I’d reached a good standard. The trick was to get the wrists into action at the last moment. That brought the cane to life, and I could feel the reaction on impact, the cane taking on a life of its own in the split second after contact.

So when Joan went away on her course I was well prepared.

I hardly slept on Sunday night, and got up in the morning with a sense of dread. I was depressed and worried all day. As it happened, nobody offended on the Monday. Nor on Tuesday! At least, not badly enough to deserve a caning. On the Wednesday two boys reported to Joan’s study at four o’clock. I was ready and waiting just in case, and when the boys knocked my heart sank. The moment I was dreading had arrived.

I read the note they brought. Clearly they had been rude to their female teacher, and I just had to enforce her authority. There was no way out, so I told the boys they would be flogged, and they both removed jackets and trousers. I remembered just in time that Mrs Joyce had to be present, so I opened the door to her office and called her in.

She had nothing to do but watch, so she stood against the wall while I laid the carpet in front of the horse. Joan and I had perfected our routine. A candidate for the cane had to bend along the horse, hands gripping the far end. Feet had to be close to the legs of the horse, so the hips were bent at a right angle. Only if the pupil jumped out of this position did we secure him. In which case, the strap went over his body, ankles were strapped in place, and I stood at the far end of the horse holding the wrists. If this happened while I was wielding the cane, Mrs Joyce would have to hold the wrists. As it happened, this was not necessary during the week.

My insides felt like lead, and when I picked up the cane (I’d chosen quite a small one) it squirmed in my hand as if the palm were sweating. Which it probably was! There was nothing for it, though, and I gave the first boy a rather swift six strokes. When he climbed off the horse and went to put on his trousers I thought I saw him grinning. I was annoyed at this. Mainly with myself, for I had clearly been far too gentle with him. There really was no point in a caning if he walked away feeling he’d been let off. So I was in an angry mood for the second boy, and I can assure you he was not grinning when he went to get dressed.

When the door closed behind the second boy I felt as if a load had been lifted from my shoulders. I smiled at Mrs. Joyce, and said she could go home now. She just stood there for a moment, then turned to leave the room, wishing me good afternoon in a rather choked voice. I was surprised at her reticence; she was normally a chatty person. I remembered her face had flushed, so I decided she must be embarrassed by the novel experience. I went home in a much happier frame of mind.

There was only one more caning to be carried out that week. On Thursday a girl arrived to be caned for several instances of poor work. I remembered to get Mrs. Joyce into the study before asking the girl to remove her blazer and bend over the horse. I asked Mrs Joyce to lift the girl’s skirt over her back, and went to select a cane. I chose a medium one again, and took up my place opposite the girl’s hips. “Four strokes!” I said, my mouth dry with nervousness. I felt even worse about this than when the boys were to be caned. Still, I had to perform my duty, so I delivered the first stroke. The girl cried out, and wriggled against the leather top of the horse, but she stayed in place and I decided not to restrain her. I waited for her to calm down, and caned her again. With each stroke she writhed more energetically against the padded surface of the horse, but always managed to stay down.

It was such a relief when it was all over. The girl clambered off the horse, sobbing. She pulled her skirt down and put on her blazer. On the way out she said, “Thank you, sir!”

Again Mrs Joyce was oddly reluctant to leave the study, and when she had gone I stared thoughtfully at the closed door.

The rest of the term passed uneventfully, though with a great deal of hard work. When we parted at Christmas Joan thanked me for the work I’d done that term. She believed we had made significant progress, and the school was working much better. Joan’s attitude to me was still friendly and welcoming, and |I still admired her as a splendid boss. We worked well together, and although she often made friendly approaches, and bought me a square meal nearly once a week, I couldn’t do more than respect her as a superior creature.

When the new term started we were hugely busy. The first week passed in a flash. By Friday we had coped pretty well, and by six o’clock Joan leant back in her chair at said, “Right! That’s enough for this week. Lets go home now!”

I stood up to go, but she said, “Lets treat ourselves to a meal at the Italian! We’ve earned it.” So I went home and changed, and we met at the restaurant.

After the meal we were finishing the wine. My life was just about to change.

“John,” she said suddenly. “Sometimes I feel like giving you a good shaking.”

I looked at her, startled. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“I’ve been giving you so many signals,” she replied, “and you have been completed oblivious to everything I do.”

I was staggered. I’d no idea what on earth she was talking about. Joan beckoned for a waiter, and got him to bring a brandy. She made him fetch me one, too, though I’d said I didn’t want one. “Nonsense,” she said. “Get it inside you!”

When I had sipped my brandy, and she had downed hers in three large gulps, she leaned over the table and gripped my wrists.

“Look here, my lad! For weeks I’ve been trying to tell you something. But you have completely failed to pick up my messages. So I’m going to have to spell it out to you. Probably in words of one syllable.”

I was aghast.

“You silly boy! I want you to cane me. I want you to take charge for a change. I want you to take the lead when we are together alone. Just now and then. Take charge as you take charge of everyone else at school. But I want you to strip me naked, bend me over and cane me until I cry. Don’t you see?”

She let go of my wrists and slumped back in her seat, her eyes fixed on mine.

“You don’t know anything about women, do you John!” I agreed with her, ruefully. “Well then, I’m going to have to teach you. You see me as some remote creature, untouchable. And untouched by worldly matters, like sexual frustration for example. Well, I’ve news for you. I have feeling just like anyone else. Don’t you see that when I’ve been in charge all day, running the school, I might want just occasionally to submit to a man? So that for once someone else takes the lead? Like you for instance?”

She paused, then went on, “I’ve been trying to tell you this for half a term. Why do you think I involve you in all the punishments in my study? Why did I teach you to use the cane? Do you remember one day I pretended to be picking something from the floor and practically pushed my bottom into your face? Surely when I made good your own fantasies about being caned, when I made you strip naked, when I even went half naked myself at your request, surely, surely I was telling you that I shared your fantasies? But even then you just put your trousers on and went home.”

She leant forward and gripped my wrists again. “Let me spell it out for you. I want you to take me home. I want you to carry me up to my bedroom, and I want you to strip me naked. I want you to bend me over and I want you to flog me until I’m raw. Do you understand? And then I want you to shag me until I’m raw inside, too. And I want you to do it now”

I was getting the message. At long last! And quickly. I jumped up and took her arm. We collected our coats and rushed to the door. Neither of us remembered to pay the bill. We left her car at the restaurant and I drove her in my old banger. At her home she fumbled the door open. The house was warm. We dropped our coats on the floor and rushed upstairs. I was thinking, “John, you’ve got to take charge. Take charge!”

Taking her by the arm, I said, “Strip off all your clothes! Everything!” trying to be masterful. She hurriedly kicked off her shoes and pulled the small black dress over her head. She unhooked the bra which dropped on the floor. She ripped off her knickers. Not bothering with the stockings and suspender belt she grabbed the dressing stool and shoved it next to the foot of the bed. Kneeling on the stool she leant over the bed on her elbows. Her glorious white bottom stared me in the face.

I looked round desperately for something to use on her. There was a cane lying on the pillow, and I grabbed it. I wasted no time and I struck her on the proffered haunches.

“Harder!” she cried.

I hit her again, more firmly.

“Harder! Do it properly! Are you a wimp or something!”

I saw red. She wasn’t going to call me a wimp. I paused and measured my distance, touching the cane carefully against her rump. I turned my body to the right and pulled the cane as far behind me as I could. Remembering everything I’d been taught. I put all my weight into the stroke and struck her as hard as I could. It was low, on the thighs rather than the buttocks. Joan said nothing. At least I’d accomplished that.

There was no compassion in me now. I caned rhythmically, pausing only to adjust my aim. Every few seconds I created a new welt. My second proper stroke was rather high, my next fairly low, but I was learning, and all the rest were somewhere between my first and second efforts. More or less on target!

I completely forgot to count the strokes. After a while I realised I had to stop at some point. Joan had taken a few quietly, but she was gasping and occasionally whimpering. I was getting to her. At the next stroke she jerked her bottom forward, quickly regaining her position before I could admonish her. I must have given her eight or ten, and I paused. Making a guess as to how much more she could take I said, “Four more strokes!” If she couldn’t take them, she could always say so. But she kept silent, so I carried on.

I don’t know how she managed the last four. She sobbed and cried out, and her body writhed and shook, though she never pulled away. Her backside was covered in welts, the early ones turning an angry red and purple. Most of the damage was on her right cheek, and in places the end of the cane had dug in, causing nasty marks. The stripes were not exactly parallel, and where two crossed a small blister had formed. When my penultimate stroke landed nearby the blister burst and a small blob of blood appeared. I was in no mood to weaken on my promise of four more, so I gave her the last stroke, aiming high to avoid the blister. The cane felt to be alive at the instant it impacted on Joan’s buttocks. The energy in the speeding implement made it buck and twist in my hand, and the far end of the cane flicked away and over her back.

Joan froze for a moment, an anguished shriek betraying her pain. But then she flung herself forward onto the bed, rapidly turning onto her back and spreading her legs.

“Fuck me John! Go on. . . go on, you bastard!”

I lost no time. I ripped off my trousers and underpants and leapt over her. I was erect and she was ready for me. Lovemaking it was not. I rammed into her and she tried to suck me in. It was all over in seconds.

We clung to each other, lungs heaving. When we had both simmered down I kissed her gently on the cheek. Joan turned her face to me and we explored each others’ mouths for the first time. Now I could be gentle with her.

It was some time before I realised the incongruity. I wore far too many clothes. I rolled away from her and sat on the edge of the bed. I took everything off and turned back to look at her. Joan lay quietly on her back, lovely breasts flattened under their own weight. She was smiling at me. “My, my,” she said. “What a fine man you are, after all.”

I lay over her again, the weight of my shoulders taken on my elbows so that I could watch her face.

“I wanted you to do that, John. I’ve been wanting you to do that for a long time. In the bedroom, John, I want you to be in charge. Always in charge. Whatever I have to do in school, you are the boss in the bedroom.”

These words were sweet to me. I felt pride that this superb woman could ever want me to be dominant over her. What should I say to her? Should I thank her for allowing me to beat her? No, we were still in the bedroom, and I had to be in charge still. So I lowered myself onto her and kissed her, a long, gentle, loving kiss. But I was on top and I kissed her lips as long as it pleased me. And then I explored her body with my lips. There were so many curves, so many nooks and bulges to examine. It would take me months, years to get to know every part. Joan purred with pleasure.

Her next words made little impact at the time, but afterwards they took on their true importance. “That’s just as it should be between us, John,” she said. “Never again will I cane you. When chastisement is needed, you will be the one holding the cane. I shall submit to you.”

I rolled her over and ran my mouth over the weals on her rump. She purred with pleasure as I lifted her onto her knees, haunches high in the air, shoulders still down on the bed. I took her again from behind, slowly this time. Afterwards we collapsed into each others’ arms and rested. We went to sleep like that.

Everything had changed for us.