by Fiona Locke
I fidgeted, plucking at the hem of my pleated skirt. ‘Sir, I –’
‘Hands at your sides, girl!’
I snapped them back to my sides. ‘I’m sorry for sneaking out, sir,’ I said. Then I added pathetically, ‘I won’t do it again.’
‘No, you most certainly won’t,’ he said severely. ‘I intend to make sure of that.’
He stood up, pushing back his chair. He came round the front of the desk to stand in front of me. The black gown framed him like an executioner’s robe. I instantly felt smaller.
‘There are three issues here,’ he began. ‘The first and most serious is your recklessness. You’re a clever girl, Harker, so it’s not stupidity or naivety. So it must be negligence. You know you ought to take precautions, but you just can’t be bothered, is that it?’
‘No, sir,’ I mumbled, lowering my head.
‘Then what is it? Look at me, girl.’
Meeting his eyes was hard, but I forced myself to do it. I floundered for an explanation, but nothing would come. ‘I don’t know, sir. I guess I just assume I’ll be all right.’
‘You find the idea of a little peril exciting, do you? Romantic? Is that it?’
It was. Damn, he was good. I mumbled a sheepish ‘Yes, sir.’
Mr Markworthy eyed me for several uncomfortable seconds. ‘Do you know what hubris is, Harker?’
I turned scarlet and looked at the floor again. ‘Yes, sir.’
He sighed and shook his head, returning to the desk. I thought he was going to sit down again and for a moment I felt relieved. But he stopped at the stand by the fireplace. A selection of crook-handled rattan canes stood there, a silent threat.
‘Now we come to the second issue,’ he said.
I chewed my lip as he withdrew one of the thinner canes. He considered it for a moment and then put it back.
‘Flouting school rules,’ he continued.
He chose a thicker cane and pulled it out. He flexed it in his hands and I was instantly reminded of an old Hulton Archive photo of a woman in a lab coat testing school canes at a factory. She was bending a cane into a dramatic arch in the foreground while in the background her colleague was surrounded by bundles of canes finished and ready for use on the backsides of errant pupils. I shuddered. The moment was approaching.
Mr Markworthy returned to the centre of the room to stand before me again. My legs began to tremble and I felt my breathing grow shallow at the nearness of the cane.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said, knowing it was no defence.
‘Yes, you will be, girl,’ he said seriously. ‘Very sorry indeed. This isn’t the first time you’ve misbehaved, though it’s by far the most serious. You clearly need something more severe than impositions.’ He flexed the cane again for effect and I winced.
‘Lastly, there is the issue of your disrespect to Mr Taylor on being caught. He says you were insolent when confronted. Is that correct?’
My throat felt stuffed with cotton. I could barely speak. He’d set the scene up well. There was no way I could deny it without calling my housemaster a liar.
‘Yes, sir,’ I whispered.
‘Very well, then. Normally a pupil would receive only two or three strokes for any one infraction. But your catalogue of misconduct demands that I make an example of you.’
The anticipation was excruciating and I felt dizzy as I waited for my sentence, though there was no mystery about the implement he proposed to use. My heart was throbbing in my ears and I stared in horror at the cane as a bead of cold sweat trickled down between my shoulder blades.
‘Six of the best, Harker.’
Of course. I’d known it couldn’t be any less. But actually hearing the words made my stomach swoop.
‘When I give the order, you will bend and touch your toes. You will stay in that position throughout your caning. And when I have finished you will remain in position until I tell you to stand up. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
His belittling words made me want to shrink inside myself. The suspense was unbearable, but so was the thought of what was coming. I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to take it. I reminded myself that a real schoolgirl wouldn’t have a choice.
‘Right. Touch your toes.’
I did as I was told, feeling the hem of my skirt rise up as I bent. I blushed, pressing my fingertips against the tops of my shoes.
Mr Markworthy laid the cane on the desk. Then I felt his hands at the hem of my skirt. He took his time raising it high up over my back while I stared at the polished rattan before me. I had to lock my knees to still the trembling in my legs.
My shirttail was next. He tucked it well up, clearing the target area. My face burnt as he made his preparations.
‘I usually prefer to cane a girl over her knickers, Harker,’ he said. ‘But in cases of insolence I find that the added embarrassment of exposure can be salutary.’
He hooked his hands in the waistband of my white cotton knickers and pulled them slowly down over my bottom. I blushed and bent forwards a little more.
‘Hmmm, it looks as though you’ve been punished recently.’ He traced the welts with his finger, making me jump. ‘But I’m afraid I’m not prepared to be lenient because of that. It’s none of my affair if you’ve got on the wrong side of one of the prefects.’
I held my breath, as much to slow my ragged breathing as to prepare myself. But Mr Markworthy was in no hurry. He laid the cool length of rattan against my bare bottom, tapping it gently. I gave an exaggerated flinch at each tap, expecting the first stroke.
‘Now then, Harker,’ he said in a firm businesslike tone. ‘I expect you know the protocol. You’re to count each stroke and thank me.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, my voice a pitiful rasp.
The cane tapped again, addressing where it would strike. Once. Twice. Then it lifted away and I heard the awful sound as it sliced back down through the air and into my bottom. There was a disorienting delay and for a second I wasn’t sure he’d actually hit me. First there was a slight tingle. Then the thin red line began to burn and flare. It spread from the point of impact to encompass my entire bottom. It took several seconds for the full effect to take hold. The stinging agony intensified until I couldn’t help bending my knees.
‘Stay in position, girl,’ he growled.
I straightened my legs, hissing through my teeth at the astonishing power of the cane. A full minute must have passed before the pain began to subside to a dull pulsating ache. And that was just the first stroke.
I felt the cane tapping brusquely. Several seconds passed. At last he said, ‘I’m waiting.’
I suddenly remembered. ‘One,’ I choked out. ‘Thank you, sir.’
He laid the rattan against my bottom again and I held my breath as it drew back again to strike.
This time the pain followed the impact much faster, but it didn’t hurt any less. My hands left my shoes and wavered in the air, desperate to clutch my sore cheeks and soothe away the sting. But I managed to resist, fearing extra punishment. I curled my toes tightly, uncomfortably, inside my shoes, trying to focus on anything but the searing parallel lines across my poor bottom.
‘Two. Thank you, sir.’ This time I remembered on my own, but the added humiliation of having to count and thank him seemed to make the stripes throb even more furiously.
The third stroke landed exactly on top of the previous one and I leapt up with a howl of pain, grabbing my sore bottom. Mr Markworthy frowned, but didn’t say a word. I struggled to resume the position, but the burn was too intense. I gasped and panted for nearly a minute before I was able to touch my toes again. With the patience of a gourmet savouring his food, he straightened my skirt and replaced my shirttail over my back.
‘If you break position again,’ he said coolly. ‘The stroke won’t count.’
‘Yes, sir. Three. Thank you, sir,’ I panted, deliriously grateful he wasn’t adding to the punishment this time.
I took the fourth stroke w
ith only a guttural groan. And I didn’t get out of position even though my legs were shaking from the effort of keeping my knees locked. I gritted my teeth until the worst of the blossoming pain was over. Then I counted the stroke.
Stroke number five found its mark between three and four and I yelped loudly. I managed to stay in position, though it took every ounce of my willpower. I forced myself to breathe slowly and deeply, letting the sensation wash over me. I counted.
Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I listened as the cane swished through the air one last time. It struck my tender bottom with a meaty whack, forcing the air from my lungs in a strangled cry. The pain was blinding. Tears shimmered in my eyes.
‘Six,’ I said at last, my voice a dazed breathless murmur. ‘Thank you, sir.’
I stayed in position, breathing hard, blinking back the tears. Tiny starbursts twinkled behind my eyes and I had to open them so as not to lose my balance. I felt light-headed.
‘Stand up.’
Shakily, I straightened up, wincing as the change in position aggravated the pain. My skirt slid back down and even its flimsy material felt like sandpaper against my backside.
Mr Markworthy held the cane in both hands, parallel to the floor. ‘Now, young lady,’ he said sternly. ‘You will stand in the corner with your hands on your head. You will think about your behaviour and how you were punished for it.’
I lowered my head in embarrassed resignation. He nodded towards the near right corner and I made my way there as though to the gallows. Obediently, I pressed my nose into the angle of the two walls, feeling far younger than sixteen.
‘Hands on your head.’
I took a step back and assumed the position.
I heard Mr Markworthy behind me and he lifted my skirt back up, before tucking it into the waistband to hold it in place. I whimpered softly at the exposure. I could imagine the picture I presented: a naughty little girl stood in the corner with her sore punished bottom on display.
‘While you are in the corner, Harker, you’re to reflect on your behaviour and how you’re going to improve it in future. Afterwards you will thank me for caring enough about your behaviour to correct you.’
His chair creaked as he sat down at his desk behind me. I didn’t dare turn my head to see if he was watching me; I was certain he was. The sense of vulnerability was overpowering.
There was some solace that my punishment was over, at least for now. As humiliating as it was, I would have stood there forever to avoid any more. Mr Markworthy told me sharply once or twice to stop fidgeting and I did my best to stay still.
Though the door to the room was closed, I could hear the clock ticking on the other side of the wall. I closed my eyes, focusing on the burning pain in my bottom. My head was swimming with the intensity of the scene and I felt thoroughly humbled.
It felt like an hour before he told me I could come out. I lowered my arms, hissing at the ache as the blood flow returned to them.
Mr Markworthy stood in front of me. ‘I trust this is a lesson we won’t have to repeat.’
Disoriented, I nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right. You may adjust your uniform.’
I whimpered as I pulled my knickers up over my burning flesh and smoothed my skirt back down.
Mr Markworthy directed me to his desk, where a leather-bound ledger lay open. ‘Sign the punishment book and you may go.’
He held a pen out to me and I stared at the book before me. The left page was filled with columns containing several names, offences and the number of strokes administered for each. There were additional notes for some of the entries. The final entry on the right page was mine. ‘Harker, Angela,’ it said. ‘Out of bounds, disrespect, endangering herself. Cane, six strokes.’
I signed my name with a still trembling hand and set the pen aside.
‘Very well, Harker. You’re dismissed.’
Outside, I sagged against the wall, unable for the moment to leave the alternate reality. Peter appeared and his stern demeanour vanished. In its place was a welcoming smile. I sank into his arms. It was like hugging a fantasy made flesh. A month earlier I would never have believed there could be anyone so perfectly in tune with my bizarre needs.
‘Did you enjoy that?’ he asked.
‘Not a bit,’ I said honestly, still delirious from the pain and humiliation. I touched my scorching stripes with a wince.
His smile grew wider. ‘Good. Punishment is not meant to be enjoyed. At least not at the time. But once the initial sting begins to fade I think you’ll find that you relish the memory of it.’
He was right. It was a delicious paradox – loving to hate it. ‘I can’t enjoy it unless I don’t enjoy it,’ I murmured.
It was something I’d never been able to articulate before. Something I had never consciously understood, but knew instinctively. Something I never imagined anyone else could possibly comprehend, let alone provide.
Nine
PETER MARKWORTHY WAS a true connoisseur and the house was a veritable spanking museum. He had amassed an impressive collection of spanking literature and paraphernalia over the years. I no longer had to lament the loss of my own meagre video collection; he had all of them and more. And books – the library shelves were crammed with books on our favourite subject.
There were many works of obscure erotica, including several I’d always wanted to read. I couldn’t help but laugh as I flicked through The Rodiad, an infamous epic poem about the joys of flogging schoolboys. I’d heard of it, but never actually seen it before. Flagellant poetry was in a class by itself and most of it was pretty dreadful.
The most famous flagellant poet of all, Algernon Charles Swinburne, was responsible for such classics as The Flogging-Block and ‘Charlie Collingwood’s Flogging’. He made no secret of his love of the rod, having often been birched himself at Eton. For years after leaving the school he pined for the block, begging a photograph of it from a friend to refresh his memory. Sure enough, Peter had his biography.
Swinburne was a frequent contributor to the flagellant correspondence columns. He wrote a particularly delightful letter to the pro-flogging Morning Post, extolling the virtues of corporal punishment and declaring himself all the better for his school experiences. He signed it ‘One who has been well swished’.
Peter shared his collection with me like a proud curator, pointing out books and periodicals he knew I’d especially appreciate. I was thrilled at last to see original issues of my beloved Family Herald, elegantly bound and preserved.
‘You’re a modern Henry Spencer Ashbee,’ I said admiringly.
Peter’s eyes lit up and I saw that he appreciated the reference.
Ashbee was an eccentric book collector who published a vast survey of pornography in the late nineteenth century under the pseudonym Pisanus Fraxi. Much of his writing focused on flagellation. He was dissolute and arrogant in the extreme, and many believed him to be ‘Walter’, the author of the notorious memoir My Secret Life. Tedious and repetitive, the book chronicled hundreds of encounters with lower-class girls willing to do anything for money. While painfully monotonous, ‘Walter’s’ escapades did appeal to my class-inequality kink. Peter had all eleven volumes.
‘If you like the library,’ he said casually, ‘then I imagine you’ll like the schoolroom.’
My eyes widened hungrily. ‘Schoolroom?’
An antique blackboard dominated one wall and a teacher’s desk stood off to the side. Another wall displayed ancient maps and old learning charts – heraldry, Latin declensions and the Periodic Table. In the centre of the room were four old-fashioned wooden school desks, complete with inkwells. I stroked the scarred surface of one desk, examining the names and graffiti etched into it. When I lifted the lid the musty odour of antiquarian books wafted out. Several slim Victorian volumes were stacked inside, along with various exercise books.
‘I prefer the classics,’ Peter explained. ‘I find they challenge a girl more.’
I paged through a battered nin
eteenth-century Latin grammar, ponderously written and heavily reliant on quotations from Ovid and Caesar. Yes, this would be an eye-opener for any modern student. But it was the spelling book that really astounded me. Published in 1877, presumably for children, it contained words like erysipelas, cicatrice, phthisis, usquebaugh and bdellium.
‘I’ve never even heard of half these words,’ I said, baffled. ‘I wouldn’t know how to pronounce some of them, let alone spell them!’
Peter took the book from me and replaced it in the desk with a sly grin. ‘Yes, I must give you a spelling test sometime. It will be most salutary.’
That was a truly frightening thought. But the idea that he’d done this before – taught lessons to nervous girls in this outdated schoolroom – thrilled me to the core.
Up on the wall behind the teacher’s desk, I noticed a display of school canes and tawses. On the desk rested a paddle, along with a wicked-looking acrylic ruler. I wasn’t keen to open the drawers; I was sure they contained yet more implements.
As I cast a final glance around the room, my eye fell on a familiar object. To the uninitiated it could have been a set of small library steps or a mounting block. But I recognised it at once. It was a birching block.
I stared at it in disbelief for several seconds. ‘Where did you …?’
‘I had a cabinet-maker friend construct it for me,’ he said with a modest smile.
He was certainly no amateur.
‘Would you like to see my masterpiece?’ he asked.
The girl stood in front of the tree, her eyes fixed pensively on the switch. On the screen all that was visible of the man beside her was his shoulder and arm. In the next shot the girl was bending over the stone wall next to the tree, her cutoffs down around her ankles. The third picture was a closeup of the switch against her unmarked bottom and the fourth showed a thin pink stripe across her cheeks. The sequence was artistic and well composed, clearly the work of a professional.
But it was the second photoset that really shocked me. It showed a different girl, a lanky brunette with pale-olive skin and an impish smile, standing naked on a tourist overlook at what could only be the Grand Canyon. I gaped at the pictures as she posed and pouted for the camera, showing off her flexibility. A few shots later and she was upended over the knee of a faceless man, her bottom reddening noticeably as the sequence progressed.
