PRISCILLAS FIRST CANING" PART X free porn video

PRISCILLA'S FIRST CANING (Part X)

Note:
Priscilla’s diary, the principal source of our longer account here, proceeds to the events of her caning almost immediately after this However, a recent interesting discovery has provided another source that coincides directly with her account at this point. The editors have decided to work on that text first, so that it will precede Priscilla’s story in these extracts, as it did in the original course of events. There may therefore be a slight delay while we deal with new material for this change of plans.



The morning bell shattered the sleeping quiet of the dorm room. Some of the girls leapt out of bed as though the bell had suddenly released a spring in their brain. Others groaned and turned over. A few seemed to have not even heard the wake-up call. Among these latter were two, who lay still for a few moments as their brains, troubled by some uncomfortable memory struggling to emerge from sleep, sought to remember what the new day had brought. One of them was Priscilla. The other was Deirdre.

Their thoughts were quite independent, but closely parallel. For Priscilla it was a dawning that this threatened to be the day that her bottom was finally doomed to encounter the cane. She felt terrified, as though the day might change her into an entirely different person.

For Deidre it was the last words spoken by the dorm-head the evening before, “Check the school notice board in the morning!” If the girl kept her word, that meant a visit to the School Prefects’ Room … and a tawsing. Unlike Priscilla, she was not frightened … her bottom had suffered under her father’s belt often enough for the pain to have lost much of its terror. But the idea of being identified to the whole school, of being forced to submit to punishment by the Head Girl, made her very angry.

Among the girls in another dormitory was Anna. Her wakening brain also made its first grab at reality by remembering what the day threatened, but her reaction was quite unlike Priscilla’s. She’d been caned three times before and this left her with a rather contradictory response.

Certainly the experiences had left her knowing that it would be very painful, even more unpleasant and painful this time, she suspected. And, equally certainly, she did not look forward to the actual event. On the other had, however, she knew that she would survive and. more than that, she had a strange sort of support community.

There was a group of girls who had come to take a perverse pride in their ability to survive a caning without yelling or blubbing, and even looked forward to the results – post-punishment, at east. After the cane had done its painful work, a girl could proudly offer her bottom for examination, discussion, and comparison by her friends. They had even developed quite an elaborate language for describing what the caning had felt like, and the damage it had done, such as the shape and the colour of welts. Then they would decide on a reward, often quite a generous one (several of the girls came from wealthy families and had quite a bit of money at hand). The most lively of these events, of course, occurred when several girls had been caned and the comparisons would lead to a vote for the winner. On these occasions, they were sometimes able to persuade girls who had been punished but did not belong to the group to join in what they called the “burned bum fun”.
For Anna, at this moment she could look forward to the bum-fun that would go a long way to make up for the pain and the humiliation. But she thought, also, of her friend. Priscilla, she knew, was not only a new girl to the headmaster’s punishment room. She was probably also much too shy to join in the rewards.


Note
The various documents which the editors have most recently been able to investigate have revealed some remarkable differences from one particular aspect of the story we have already seen, mostly in Priscilla’s diary. The differences concerns Deidre, the daughter of the master who had seen them at the fair and reported them.

It had first seemed to us that Mr. Turner was a much disliked teacher who had been on the school’s faculty for some time, and that his daughter was just a detail in that story. It now appears that Mr. Turner had been at the school for less than two years. He had been a teacher abroad for many years before, but when his wife disappeared, leaving him with a very troublesome teen-age daughter, he had decided to return to England. He had been lucky enough to find a job at St. Swithin’s, where he could also place his daughter.

He was, indeed and however, a rather unpleasant man and a very unpopular teacher. When still teaching abroad, he had tried to improve the behaviour of his increasingly obstreperous daughter with his belt. This hadn’t been very effective, and when he started at St. Swithin’s, knowing it’s strict disciplinary policy, he had decided that he could leave the discipline to the school, where Deidre was now a boarder.

Remarkably, her behaviour had immediately improved and, up to the present moment she had escaped any further corporal punishment. However, she was not a happy girl and the other girls disliked her without question, simply because she was the daughter of a much disliked teacher. She, in turn, reacted by acting as though she was superior to them all. In fact, by nature she was rather compatible with several other girls, Priscilla in particular.

The seemingly disastrous outcome of Priscilla and Anna’s jaunt to the county fair, which was undeniably going to be very unpleasant, was also going to have some very unexpected results.

We will start our account of the day’s events by drawing on several sources
In the school chapel, where the entire school celebrated morning prayers at the start of each school day, the students in Priscilla and Deidre’s dorm sat in a block that kept them back until most of the other students had left. During prayers, Priscilla had gone against her normal tendencies by actually praying. For what, she didn’t know. She just asked the Almighty to make it not so bad. Deidre, however, who was a rather angry young woman, had called down Divine Wrath on the dormitory head.

When they finally got to leave the chapel, they both hurried to catch up with the crowd of students streaming towards the school assembly hall … and the notice boards. Neither of them, however, gave a thought to the other. But they both understood what was happening before they even reached the notice board. Word of Priscilla and Anna’s likely fate had already spread and, as always, girls rushed eagerly to see their selfish hopes confirmed.

But both Pricilla and Deidre heard puzzled muttering.

“Afraid their names aren’t there! Maybe the story was made up!”

“But wait! There is a notice … but it’s not for them … Oh my god! It’s Deidre Turner! Well, perhaps that’s even better!”

At this moment, Priscilla looked towards Deidre, who was simply looking furious. Then she caught sight of Anna, who raised her hands in a gesture of uncertainty and mouthed something. Priscilla thought it was “Guess it’s not today!”

Priscilla felt a moment of deep relief. At least the unknowable horror had been put off. Could the headmaster have changed his mind? No. She knew perfectly well that he couldn’t have.

All the three girls, Priscilla, Anna and Deidre had the same class. Priscilla and Anna walked to the class room together, saying nothing. But Priscilla started looking at Deidre, walking by herself and still visibly angry. She actually began to feel sorry for her, but then thought, “Well, it’s only the tawse for her, lucky thing.”

The most surprising newly found document is parts of a diary written by Deidre. One wonders whether a compulsion to keep a diary was typical of girls who were facing corporal punishment. Except that this would have meant almost every girl in the school. Perhaps, however, it was girls who faced punishment in a particular frame of mind who felt that they needed to write about it!

In any case, what follows comes almost verbatim from Deidre’s account, slightly re-organised to make it clearer. The editors apologise to any interested readers who may have been wondering what happened to our offer to publish these documents. The papers involved turned out to be in a bit of a mess and it took quite a while to sort them out.

From Deidre’s Diary

Shit! God dammit! What a mess! And I know I’m to blame! My blasted temper – if only I could keep my mouth shut. Time and again! Shit!
This is the day after – but god! What a day yesterday was! Didn’t even have time to write in my diary. A minor detail, considering everything else that happened. Luckily this is German class – and I know German better than the teacher does. She’s sitting reading a mag and we’re supposed to be writing an essay. So it’s catch-up with diary time.
Yesterday morning after chapel I saw my name on the notice board. Priscilla’s wasn’t there – but she’ll probably get it tomorrow. It’s stupid, because I probably like her really. I’ve just let everything go wrong. Not that I actually thought was going to happen was so very terrible. For god’s sake, I’d been belted by my dad so often that now I don’t even mind the pain all that much. It was just that I was going to be made to dance around by all the stupid “father figures” in this damn school! And I hate that! Or so I thought.

I saw the notice that I had to report to the matron’s office and I got through the morning OK. As I said, it was more that I was furious than afraid. And I knew what the matron wanted. So I just told her of course! Just go ahead! No worry! She seemed pretty pissed off, and told me to check the board again in half an hour.

Sure enough. There it was! Deidre Turner report to the School Prefects Room at 1:30. Actually, my name was one of three. I sort of knew the other two, but not well.

So no problem. There I was at 1:30, with the other two, at the door of the School Prefect’s Common Room. One of the others, Marina, looked kind of blasé, like I felt. I didn’t have to ask her – she just said

“Third time” – and you?” I said, “First!” She looked surprised,

“Really! Like Jenna here!”
S
I laughed, “No, I’m used to it – at least the belt across my arse at home!”
Marina smiled but Jenna looked shocked, and muttered, “I’m so scared! Won’t it really hurt?!”
Marina blew a puff of breath. “Oh come on! Wait till you’re caned, then you can talk about it hurting!”

Jenna could barely whisper, “Oh god!” When the door opened and a school prefect with a piece of paper in her hand looked out with a positively gleeful grin.

“Well! Well! Three of you! Three beautiful bums! Hmm! I think that Jenna should be first! Come on in, welcome!”

Jenna spluttered and started to reach for Marina, who responded, “Oh, come on! Sooner they start the sooner you’ll be out again! Go on!”

The school prefect actually grabbed her arm, yanked her inside and shut the door. Marina raised her eyebrows. Well, I suppose the first time’s got to be scary … but still! Let’s listen … you can hear quite a lot actually.”

We were silent for about a minute, and then there was a clear whack” and an equally audible yell. “Here we go!” said Marina, “Wonder how many she’ll get? Let’s count!”

So count we did. Whacks and yells. Fifteen. I was able to imagine what was happening without much difficulty … tho’ I hadn’t met a tawse yet! “Not bad” said Marina, “They can give you up to fifty, I think. I’ll probably get 30 … What do you expect?”

I didn’t have time to answer, because the door suddenly opened. Jenna appeared, her face red, tears running down her cheeks, hands clutching her arse. She just ran off, without saying a word, and the prefect re-appeared to summon Marina. So I was to be last.

Almost immediately the whacking started up again. They sounded a bit louder than before, but no yelling could be heard. The whacking sounds grew even sharper. I imagined Marina gritting her teeth as the Head Prefect tried even harder to get her to cry out. Twenty strokes … twenty-five … I thought I was starting to hear some sounds of protest, but the number stopped at twenty-five. Oh! Oh! My turn next!

The door opened again and Marina reappeared. No signs of tears, but her face was red and she looked at me for a moment, making a kind of “whew!” sound. “Good luck! She’s in a vicious mood” she muttered, and disappeared down the corridor, hands to arse.

Someone in the room yelled “Deidre!” and walked in, trying to look as though I wasn’t worried, but beginning to feel a bit less confident. Inside, to the left, the Prefects were sitting in a half-circle, as though watching a show. To the right was “the show”, a large, heavy table was pushed against the wall, and in between stood a girl I recognized as the Head Girl. She was holding the tawse in her right hand, slapping it into the palm of her left. I could now see the tawse.

It was a strip of nearly black leather, about a foot and a half in length, and it was really thick – it must have been doubled. And for more than half of its length it was obviously divided in two. It certainly looked much more threatening than my father’s belt!

The Head Girl was grinning at her colleagues, who were laughing back at some joke she must have made. The only words I heard were “ … well, we’ll see!” My blood began to boil and I was desperately telling myself to calm down. She gave a strange little speech.

“Well, apparently you haven’t suffered any corporal punishment in the school yet … tho’ I find it hard to believe that you haven’t deserved it. Anyway, it seems that I am not to give you more than thirty strokes because of that … so we’ll just make sure you can count them! Bend over at that table there, stick your head under its edge, and pull up your skirt, right above your waist. Go on … NOW!”

This was almost enough to make the rebel in me burst, but I bit my lip and did what I was told. Without any further pause, she came up beside me, stuck her thumbs in the waist of my panties and yanked them down, right to my knees.

At once my rebellious blood threatened to boil over even more violently, as I realized that the humiliation of the position, with my bared arse stuck up in front of the assembled six or seven prefects. It was a show and the tawse whacking across my arse was to be the performance. I felt sure they were licking their lips.

Even more I wanted to jump up again and tell them all to go to hell. But I cursed my big mouth and told it to stay shut, before things got even worse, whatever that could mean. “Count!” she hissed, “one stroke, thank you, like that, for each one!” And then …
WHAPP!! I sensed the sudden sweep of her arm as a line of fire burnt across my cheeks.
I couldn’t help a little “Ooff!”, more out of surprise than pain. I think I had also heard a kind of grunt from her, probably as she put maximum effort into the stroke. Sure it hurt, and maybe more than my father’s belt. But I had taken several beltings and could certainly survive it.

“You didn’t count, you stupid girl!” WHAPP!! “That’s one extra for each time you don’t count … or count wrong!”
Her anger probably saved me, because I realized that I had to beat her – in a different sense from the way she was beating me! I wouldn’t let her win!”

So I counted. Loudly.

“Good!” she said, and then WHAPP!! again. I began to realize what was so different from being belted by my father, apart from the stinking audience. I would feel the belt in long, stinging lines that wrapped around my hips or down my thighs. But the tawse was shorter and concentrated in the centre of my arse cheeks. Of course, I always hated the belt on my legs. It hurt more than on my cheeks. But the concentrated fire of the tawse certainly burned more.

WHAPP!!
“Two strokes … thank you” I guessed, fortunately correctly, that I should count it only as the second stroke.

And so it continued. I had managed to get control of my reactions, though I couldn’t help a little jerk of my hips in reaction to each WHAPP! I studied her movements out of the corner of my eye, forcing myself to watch for the twist of her shoulders, the lift of her arm, and the sudden unwinding of her body. I did not cry out, though I knew she was trying to make me, although my count wasn’t as loud and firm each time as I wished to make it. And I couldn’t help several more “OOOFS!” when the tawse seemed to land somewhere that burned extra badly.

But it came to the twentieth, the twenty-fifth, and finally the thirtieth stroke. My arse was burning like hell, but I knew that, as far as I was concerned, I had won.

“Stand up! … And thank me again! Say ‘thank you for beating some sense into me, Miss Thomas!’”

I was just pulling my head out from under the table, getting upright and yanking my panties up over my still burning arse, when she came out with this gem, I’m afraid this did it … and I suspect that she thought she knew what she was doing, or at least sort of. I stared at her with my mouth clamped shut for a moment, and then let fly! I’ve forgotten what I said exactly. It was something about sadistic perverts and muscle-bound arms going with feeble minds. And I think I actually spat at her, turning also to her junior prefects and telling them that they weren’t worth my breath.

I knew I’d blown it, so I just sort of waited. I could have run out, but I wanted to know how she’d react. Actually, she was icily calm. I guess she didn’t have the authority to continue tawsing me right then.

“You’ve probably forgotten that you are due in Miss Grove’s classroom for extra study. I will give you a written note, so that she will know why you’ve been delayed.”

I had a feeling this wasn’t to be quite as straight forward as it seemed, but I waited, still steaming, while she carefully wrote out some explanation. Doubtless it made me look bad, but she put it in an envelope and sealed it, so I couldn’t see. Then I was dismissed, with some chuckles audible, and went off to Miss Grove’s classroom, feeling – and doubtless also looking – grim. I was supposed to be making up for some missing maths homework, which made the whole scene even worse.

Miss Grove was looking peeved, but she grunted some acknowledgment as I handed her the envelope, tore it open, read the note with her mouth pursed in disapproval. “It sounds as though you are acting like an idiot in places other than my class! Well let’s see if you’ve go the brains to catch up with you maths!”

Oh my god! I didn’t have a chance! The whole damn school is conspiring to push me over the edge – and over the edge – indeed over the top – I went. Can’t even remember what I said. Bitch was probably the politest word I used. Then I just stopped, and stared at her. Her eyes rolled around in her head for a few seconds before seeming to pop out. She opened and shut her mouth. And took several deep breaths. And finally managed to speak.

“Right! That’s it! Follow me!”

She stalked out of classroom, and headed straight back to the School Prefects’ Room. I thought she was going to ask Miss Fucking Thomas to get out her tawse again. But no such luck. She disappeared into the room, hissing “You stay right here!” I could have run away, but I as beginning to realize that I’d better neither do nor say anything. After a few minutes she burst out of the door with Miss Thomas in tow.

“So where’s the headmaster at this hour, do you know?”

Uh Oh! I was beginning to think a little harder. Too late, I’m afraid!

Miss Thomas replied that she thought he was keeping his advice hours, in his special “Advice Office”, room 325 she thought, not where the secretaries are. So they marched off, assuming I would follow. And I have to say that I did. The headmaster had a special office for what you might think of as his friendlier engagements with students. In fact, I’d heard that he could be quite nice when he chose. Perhaps he’d just call my father in for a helpful chat, although I could guess how my father would react – except that he hardly ever saw me at home, now I was a boarder. Anyway --- no such luck!

Miss Grove and the head girl burst into the Room 325 waiting area, where a couple of girls sitting there looked up a bit startled.

“Is the headmaster in the office?”

“Uh, yes … he’s talking with Meredith …’

Miss Grove simply marched up to his door, rapped a couple of times, and threw it open. I heard an abrupt protest from Dr. Stanton, but Miss Grove just opened up with a furious account of my unbelievable behaviour. Dr. Stanton managed to calm her down and then said that he had only a couple more minutes with Meredith, and then he would listen.

We retired and stood outside. Electricity was zinging through the room, and the two waiting girls stared at each other in silent amazement. Soon enough, Meredith emerged, thanking the head master profusely, and then sk**addled as fast as she could. The headmaster asked us in. Maybe now to find out where I’d landed myself!

Miss Grove launched into her outraged story once again. He looked somewhat astonished, paused for several moments, and then asked his head girl to confirm the story. She did so, with a few extra gory details. He started to look extremely thoughtful, paused for a few more moments, and then looked at me.

“Are their accounts accurate?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I finally muttered, “Well, yes, I guess so.”

“You GUESS so! Where was -- and where is -- your brain, girl?! Yes or no?!”

So I simply said “Yes.”

He took a deep breath. Remained silent for several seconds, and finally, said, “Well, I have to say this quite awful, and quite astonishing. I thank you both for bringing Deidre to me at this moment – quite appropriate! You may return to your work. She will remain here while I attend to the two girls who are still waiting for me. And I will decide what to do about Piscilla!”

There was something in Dr. Stanton’s tone of voice that made me nervous. Miss Grove and Miss Thomas looked at each with raised eyebrows. I’m not sure what they expected! But they thanked the headmaster. He thanked them back, and they left the room. He stared at me a moment longer and then said, “You may wait outside, and I will call you back in when I’m ready.”

And at that I left his study. He called the next girl in. She blinked at me with amazement as we passed in the doorway, and I went and sat down. The other girl and myself sat in silence for a short while, until she finally couldn’t contain her curiousity and sort of whispered, “So what’s up?” I answered, “I’ve made a real of mess of things, so God knows what’ll happen!” And said no more. So we sat in silence, until she was called in after the first girl came out.

After that I sat alone. Trying not to think. Whatever happened, I knew it wouldn’t be good!


At this point, Deidre’s diary crosses paths in a rather intriguing way. It coincides with some lengthy items among all the fragments of Dr. Stanton’s notes. This is not, perhaps, all that surprising, since the events into which Deidre’s bad judgment plunged her were unusual to say the least. So we will switch to some of Dr. Stanton’s diary note before returning to Deidre’s own account.

His diary is just as verbose as his “official advice”, perhaps even more so! However, he often drops the mask of propriety that he tries so hard to maintain when addressing others, and writing for his own eyes only (we suppose) he can be quite happy to indulge the very improper impulses that actually governed some of his actions.

Dr. Stanton’a Diary
……… This afernoon I was running one of my general advice sessions for the school’s students. I had originally been expecting to administer punishment to the two girls, Priscilla and Anna, who had been marched into my house yesterday by Mr. Turner, at first to my annoyance … but an annoyance that had turned into considerable possibilities! I was expecting to take my time over their punishment and had put it off for a day. Little had I expected a particular and even peculiar consequence to Mr.Turner’ visit. However, even though I was indeed grateful to him for placing these two very becoming girls in my hands, I still found him (and his tedious daughter) rather irritating!

I was in the middle of sorting out students’ family problems in the study that I reserve for such affairs, when – to my immediate (at least at that moment) dismay, Miss Grove burst into my study, accompanied by Felicity, my head girl, and none other than Deidre, Mr. Turner’s daughter.

[Dr. Stanton then repeats Miss Grove’s account, essentially as it is given in Deidre’s diary]

Thus, while Miss Turner sat outside my door, I held conversations with the two students who had been waiting, at the same time as my mind busily considered what to do with the newly revealed miscreant.

It was rather a delightful consideration, I must admit, because ever since her father had joined the staff nearly two years previously, she had displayed an attitude that was distinctly and irritatingly superior in her refusal to commit any offense that might have led to encounter with the cane.

However, this was a very unusual situation and, oddly enough, it was essentially because she had just been tawsed, rather than caned. Had she just been punished with the latter and then immediately committed another offense, I could simply have given a second caning, unless she had already received the maximum number of strokes permitted at one – well “sitting” is not quite the right word; at one “bending ... one might say. In that case, I would have ordered her return as soon as the matron deemed her bottom ready for another round of the cane.

In the present case, however, I had no rules as to how to assess the damage already inflicted by the tawse and, further, I felt that the additional punishment should be visited on her bottom at once, without further delay.

I could, of course, tell her to bare her bottom for an assessment of its condition for additional punishment and this I would certainly do. After all, that was no different from having her present her bared bottom for a pre-ordained beating. But I still felt somewhat flummoxed by this novel situation and I therefore decided to telephone the matron and request her presence, as I often did when another’s judgment seemed necessary. Obviously I had not mentioned this to her before, because my engagements with pupils in this particular study was normally reserved for less problematic matters. It was fortunate, however, that I kept a trio of canes in a cupboard there, in case an unexpected need should arise – which it had, on two or three previous occasions. Fortunately, there was also a phone.

When my final session of fatherly advice was finished and the girl had left, I looked into the waiting room, where Miss Turner remained, still looking inappropriately unconcerned. I told her to stay sitting there while I decided how to deal with her execrable behaviour, but I couldn’t resist adding, “And if you are already finding it uncomfortable to sit, then you’d better be prepared to find it even more so shortly.”

I rang the matron, fortunately she was in her own study, and explained my predicament briefly. She responded, “Well, indeed! Deidre Turner! What a surprise – but maybe about time! I’ll be over right away.”

I was pleased to note that she seemed happy at the prospect. She was always more than ready to attend a caning. Thereby hangs another tale, of course, but I couldn’t help chuckling at the conundrum she presented to the girls. On the one hand, she was popular, for being both helpful and kind. On the other, she had no problem in watching the cane wreak its havoc upon their bottoms, even to sometimes offering an opinion that a pair of already well-marked cheeks could certainly sustain a few more seriously painful strokes. I suppose that the girls had come to accept this simply as an aspect of the school’s very clearly established disciplinary policy. Also, I knew, she was always happy to provide medical comfort after the event, in the form of ointments and a bit of massage. Indeed, after a serious caning, whether she was in attendance or not, I often told the suffering miscreant to go to the sickroom for appropriate attention.

But I am letting this diary go astray. She knocked at my door within less than five minutes. In the mean time, I had moved some chairs to make certain there was enough room to swing the cane, and I had taken the three canes from the cupboard. While doing so, I had had a bright idea and I explained this to her as soon as she fully understood my problem.

I thought it likely that the condition of Deidre’s bottom might prohibit any extended application of the cane. In the past, of course, I had had the opportunity – normally with the matron’s assistance -- to inspect the bottom of a girl who had been caned one or two weeks before. But I had never inspected a bottom a short while after a tawsing. But every term, of course, it was my habit to administer the first tawsing in the school prefects’ common room. So I knew that a good tawsing could leave a bottom very brightly coloured at least.

I still thought, however, that Deidre deserved a caning that was as painful as the regulations allowed. At this point I had pondered one problem with more serious canings. I knew from observation, and also a few private conversations, that a number of serious strokes with the cane could begin to render a bottom somewhat numb. And, furthermore, the repetition of several strokes, each one like that which had preceded it, also tended to diminish the sharp shock of each impact of the cane, thus making the caning increasingly less effective.
Of course, there is quite a variety of ways to change the effect of a cane, apart from simply how hard is the stroke. You can try to land the stroke exactly along a previous one; or choose a more sensitive target, such as where the cheeks join the thighs, or a more vulnerable area higher up the bottom where the cheeks aren’t quite so well padded; or deliver two strokes one immediately after the other, or wait longer between stroke, tapping the bottom or sliding the cane to and fro so that the girl keeps expecting the next one. Sometimes one can usefully surprise a girl waiting nervously for her next stroke simply by switching from a very quick flicking stroke to a slower but longer one, or vice versa. But suddenly I had another idea, especially appropriate when one could administer only a few strokes, say ten.

The answer was perhaps to use different canes! I have actually described in some instructions for teachers new to corporal punishment how different canes can vary greatly in their effect. I must confess that there was something a bit mean-minde about this, but somehow Deidre seemed to provoke it!

So I explained the idea to the matron. She also chuckled, just as I had. “You are a very devious man, Henry!” She called me by my first name when we were alone together, especially if we were on sensitive territory, as one might say, but headmaster at all other times.

“But don’t you think she deserves it?”

“Probably! Let’s first take a look at how her bottom looks after the tawse. I’ll give you a nod if I think it’s a good idea … I wonder whether she’ll tell her father about this … and what he’d say?”

“She might get away without telling him, since she’s a boarder … but some other girl would probably let him know. You know howthe girls are about corporal punishments! Actually, I remember now that he once said something to me about having to beat her sometimes, before they came back to England – with his belt I think. So he couldn’t complain.”

“Well the poor girl’s probably desperate to pee! How long since she visited the school prefects? Do you have a lavatory here?’

“Of course!” I answered, pointing to a door behind me. ”She’s welcome to use it – why don’t you call her in.”

The matron did so, and when she came in not only was she now looking more anxous then before, but the distinctive way in which she walked with her thighs together showed that the matron’s guess was on the mark, so she came to her rescue.

“There’s a bathroom over there – perhaps you’d better use it! You’re going to be caned, as I’m sure you’ve realized, and we do not want an accident in the middle of your punishment!”

The poor girl! I almost felt sorry for her! She grimaced and pushed a hand into her crotch as she tottered to the bathroom door. When it closed behind her, a wicked look came over the matron’s face and she held up a finger, “Shhh!”

I didn’t have to ask why! We lapsed into complete silence and listened carefully. Sure enough, the charming tinkle of a girl peeing came clearly through the door. It went on and on. We exchanged rather caustic smiles, and the matron whispered, “My goodness! It’s a good thing we caught that in time!” The sound of a flush. Another rather extended silence. Matron looked as though she was about to go and knock on the lavatory door when it opened and Deidre reappeared, her face now distinctly reddening.

“So you have just been tawsed?” matron asked.

“Yes matron”

“And how many strokes?”

“Thirtty, matron.”

“Well, well! So we’d better have a look at your bottom, and then we can decide how to proceed. Bend over – right there – and raise your skirt.”

Another grimace, but bend over she did, lifting her skirt.

“Right up, above your waist … better!’

Writing these notes from my still vivid recollections, I find myself recognizing a – how shall I put it (to myself of course!) – a certain slightly wicked question. I remember that I touched on it in my advice and instructions for masters (and mistresses, for in frank discussion with a female principal from a well-known boarding school for girls, I was told that it can be relevant to the fair sex as well) ) contemplating the practices of corporal punishment. But personal experience inevitably adds an individual colouring to the picture, shall we say!

The issue concerns the revelation (a nice term!) that is offered to the disciplinarian when the girl bares her bottom for her punishment and, inevitably reveals some of those even more intimate details of her anatomy that lie is such close proximity to the bottom cheeks fated to welcome the cane. In my instructions, I suggested that the master in his active position of authority should not be shy of contemplating the whole feminine ensemble, as we might put it. This is because we must not forget that an important aspect of a caning is, specifically, the embarrassment and consequent humiliation that precedes and accompanies it. Otherwise, one might as well design a machine that can administer a caning without any human agency -- beyond perhaps turning some dials.

Indeed, I have heard rumours of just such an invention – and it is hardly necessary to respond that there is something in the mere idea that renders it wholly unsatisfactory (unless the whole human race is turned into robots, in which schools would not be necessary either!). It is not only proper that a student about to be punished be painfully aware that the very heart of her female nature should be on exhibition – in other words, pain, which is the essential point of corporal punishment to begin with, has psychological as well as physical dimensions and it is this combination that makes it such an essential educational tool.

My oh my! Here am I simply trying to keep my disciplinary diary up to date, and I find myself giving myself a lecture. One might say that there is more to this matter of the cane than meets the eye —Oh! Haha! I must stop entertaining myself and get back on track!

In my instructions, as I remember, I also touched on the delicate subject of the physical response that an unavoidable encounter with these female characteristics may well impose on the master who is simply fulfilling his duty in all innocence.

I think that dealing consciously and deliberately with the situation presented to ones gaze is the appropriate approach. For example, there is a world of difference between the mere academic facts of anatomy and the reality of each individual case (oh dear! Haha! Again!, one might well say that the “reality” in the circumstances under discussion are definitely “academic! Oh well!). I have seen innumerable differences among the many hundreds of young women who have been obliged to present themselves to my cane. Observing them carefully always usefully turns my attention away from mere mundane reactions towards a more intellectual curiousity and appreciation.

In the same way , or perhaps more as a further aspect of the same situation, one might characterize the essential four factors in an instance of corporal punishment as, order: “cane, bottom cheeks, thwack, and welt!”

Obviously, however, there are infinite subtle variations in all these factors as they actually appear “in the flesh”, to use another appropriate expression. I could, I am sure, were I to put all my powers of scientific observation to work, pen a description of several hundred words for each stroke that I deliver. This might be an interesting intellectual effort, of course, but here I am only seeking to clarify a little why I find almost every caning equally fascinating and, often even if not always, satisfying.

Doubtless each master who has developed practiced expertise in wielding the cane has also developed a particular fascination for some aspects of all that he regularly observes in every individual case, both within the area with which the cane is necessarily concerned, and also its wider environment. I myself have considered at great length many details of the former, but … and here I suddenly realize exactly why this page of my diary has abruptly gone off on a tangent – now where was I? Oh yes!

I always get a little – frisson, shall I say – of delight when I glimpse that neat little triangle of fine hair that marks where the classically acceptable beauty of the female belly suddenly swells, dips and disappears between the thighs, into the secret region that lies beyond the scope of the traditional artist’s brush, but which equally surely is located the ultimate point of his imagination.

Normally, one is granted granted such a privileged glimpse only in the case of a particularly serious punishment, when rules dictate that the girl must disrobe before bending over to receive the cane. When the punishment is at a milder level and only the lifting of the skirt and the lowering of panties is required, often such a moment is not provided.

In the case of Deidre, however, a happy chance intervened. The exact place where she was standing when matron had her display her bottom for a judgment on its condition, was not suitable for my cane, which would have struck a lamp. So I had her move and, as she shuffled over, she turned slightly but just enough to afford a tantalizing glimpse of – what do the girls call it? Their bushie, I think. What made this an even more perfect moment was the fact that her hair was very dark, almost black. And so was that compact little triangle between her thighs. I like it best when the pubic hair is black. It’s like an exclamation point and a sign-post combined!

Deidre has a very nice figure. Not tall and athletic –unlike Anna and Priscilla (can’t wait!). A bit shorter, and a little softer, but with very nice curves. I would have to get her to bend over further with her bottom really sticking up so that there’ll be a better view in between her thighs. It’s interesting the way that, when matron is in attendance, I find it even easier to let my thoughts run ahead like this. I’m very practiced at keeping my face straight and severe – I think!

Come on Dr. Stanton! End of lecture! Get on with the story!

So I exchanged looks with matron, because, even with her panties still up, we could see extensive bruising on her bottom at the base of each cheek. Matron stepped forward and yanked her panties unceremoniously, down to her knees.

We said “Aaah!” almost as one! Felicity must have laid into her with every thing she had. The centre of her bottom cheeks were a huge patch of crimson and purple and a pattern of broad crimson stripes fanned out towards her right hip.

“Thirty strokes?” I queried.

Deidre guessed why I asked. “Yes sir! It was awfully hard … and it’s still really burning!”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to save you from the cane,” I replied. “You’ve done everything to deserve a second severe beating … but with the cane this time. … What do you think, matron? Ten strokes? She certainly deserves more, but Miss Thomas seems to have done a thorough job already …”

“Yes, headmaster. A think her bottom can take another ten – good ones though!” And she nodded, holding up three fingers. I knew what she meant.
Suddenly I had to decide whether to start with the thin cane and finish with the thickest, which might have seemed appropriate. But I though that perhaps using the thinnest cane last would, so to speak, better cut through the inevitable numbness.

So I went to the table, picked up the thinnest of the three instruments, and made a point of wishing it thoughtfully. Then I picked up the middle cane and swished that. Then the third. And said “Hmmm!” I didn’t have to look at Deidre’s face to know how she was reacting.

I kept the third cane, the thickest, bending it between my two hands and giving it another three, hard swishes. Deidre had her head up, staring.

“Let’s move you over here!” I said, pointing to a space in the middle of the room. “We need enough space to swing a cat, so to speak – not that we actually use the “cat” nowadays, of course – and I suppose it wasn’t deemed appropriate for girls anyway! But the cane is quite good enough for us! Over here!”

Her panties were still around her knees and he shuffled forward, biting her lip. This was the moment that afforded me a charming glimpse of her pubic hair.

“Matron, could you please arrange Deidre’s skirt, please!”

Matron did so, folding her skirt back above her waist, and giving her panties another little downwards jerk.

I thanked her courteously and stepped forward to tap Deidre on the back.

“Bend right down, please! Come on, you can touch your toes so do so!”

Deidre did so, and I then moved behind her, poking my cane between her thighs and switching it to and fro.

“Legs apart please! Further! Come on! We don’t want you toppling over when the can lands!”

Always a good excuse! I was unusually persistent and, from my position directly behind her, was finally rewarded with a view between her thighs of her delicate private parts – and a glimpse of where the fine, dark hairs of her bush felt their way inwards and back to where her sex was revealed.

I moved over to one side. A pity, but a sacrifice I was well practiced in. Raised the cane and stretched it out across the center of her bottom. Oh yes! Another decision! One I had already pondered on but without a decision. Normally I started a caning across the crown of a bottom and then moved each successive stroke down a little, calculating according to the number of designated strokes to land the final stroke across the lower edge of the cheeks, right along the crease which marked their meeting with the thighs.

But something made me change my mind. Ten strokes? Well how about starting at the lower edge, moving up to the crown and then back down again? Why not? Admittedly, a first good stroked landing right across the centre of an as yet unblemished bottom was a very satisfying way to start. But I thought it would make a change to land the very first stroke along the crease? Then five up and five down. Not only was this a more sensitive area than the crown but, in this case, a narrow band of stretching across both cheeks just above the crease was just about the only area that Miss Thompson had left untouched by her tawse!

I had been so taken up with the fascinating opportunity to observe the effects of a sound tawsing shortly after it had been delivered (the question of how welts develops in the first hour or so after the stroke has been delivered is one about which my curiousity usually went unsatisfied), and then with the negotiations with matron as to how to proceed with a second beating, that I’d forgotten to decided whether to ask the girl to count the strokes. I didn’t have a rule on this issue, and usually decided it on the basis of whether I thought the beating should be, so to speak, driven home further with this psychological device. Clearly that was the case here, so,

“You will count each stroke! …”

Deidre turned her head to look at me with a muttered “Er .. er … what?” Obviously her nerves were beginning to fail her.

“I said, you will count each stroke! After each stroke of the cane you will count. If it is your first stroke, you will say ‘One stroke, thank you sir!’ After your second stroke, you will say ‘Two strokes, thank you sir!’ Do you understand?”

“Er, er, yes … sir!”

“And if you forget, or miscount, then you will receive an extra penalty stroke. Further, you will keep in position. You will keep your hands to the floor and you will NOT touch your bottom during the caning! If you do, that also means a penalty stroke … each time! Is that clear?! And if you earn too many penalty strokes, then you you will be back here in about two weeks time to receive the same punishment all over again! Do you understand?!”

She opened and closed her mouth a few times. I could see that the sooner I began her punishment the better. The defiant attitude she’d shown a little earlier had quite vanished. I had occasionally had girls collapse on the floor, or even try to run!

“Do you understand? Or are we going to stay here in this position all afternoon?”

She swallowed hard, so far as she could do so with her head down close to her knees. “Er .. yes sir … yes I do.”

“Good! I’m glad to hear it. Then let us start!”

So I moved the cane downwards, loosened my shoulders, tapped the line of my aim a coupe of times, pressed the cane lightly into the still unmarked skin, paused, breathed evenly, concentrated firmly, and ……

***************************************************

Dr. Stanton’s diary continues in some detail, of course. But since we will make extensive use it later, we’ll return to Deidre at this point for the sake of what one might call “the bottom’s eye view” as registered in Deidre’s brain. Her account is interesting, even though it lacks the obsession with detail that characterizes Dr. Stanton’s own records. The curious reader might wish for something more like a moment-by-moment account of what it was like to be at the receiving end of Dr. Stanton’s cane. However, Deidre’s wider interest in her experiences of that memorable day (both for herself and Dr. Stanton is perhaps worth a change from Dr. Stanton’s rather narrowly focused (quite literally!) view of the event. In any case, the records pertaining to both Anna and Priscilla, which we will turn to next, are, in contrast, quite remarkably detailed.


Deidre’s Diary again
I felt the cane across the cheeks of my arse. Low across my arse. Uncomfortably close to the sensitive lips of my pussy. And at this moment I realized that I was meeting something I’d never met before, that my world was somehow changing. And I realized further that I was suddenly very nervous, in fact afraid.

I could remember the first time that my father attacked my butt with his belt. I was certainly very angry, but I hadn’t had the time to become afraid. Now – I’m realizing as I write this a day later, Dr. Stanton was obviously some mind of expert in the psychology of corporal punishment. He’d been up to all sorts of tricks, giving me plenty of time to understand that something very unpleasant, something really painful, was about to happen – and I was becoming more afraid every moment.

I also realize, now, that maybe only three or four seconds passed before the first feeling of the cane resting across my arse kind of exploded into the first stroke. But my mind must have been started working triple time, because I can clearly remember a whole string of thoughts that zipped through my brain in that tiny interval.

It was the first time that I’d actually felt an “instrument of punishment” touching – or rather threatening – my arse even before the first “thwack!” Both the belt and the tawse just came out of the blue. You might think that was worse – but no! I could actually feel my arse reacting to the pressure of the cane and starting to shiver in fear. There was something about the sensation of that long, thin line pressing into the flesh of my cheeks that was horribly vivid. In fact, now I think, I remember that my knees were starting to tremble for a second or two.

I was also able to realize that it wasn’t only the feel of the waiting cane that was new. Bending right over with my arse bared and lifted up, with the headmaster looking at it, cane in hand, was a very different feeling from the head girl and her tawse. It was almost as though the cane was speaking – and as though my arse itself was announcing: “Look! Here I am! I’m your target! There’s nothing I can do to stop you! So please! Get on with the job and cane me!”

I seemed to be completely paralyzed! Couldn’t even think about protesting, let alone trying to escape! It was really very weird.

What was also weird was that I could practically see what my arse looked like, offered and waiting for his cane. Maybe this was because, when they’d let me go the bathroom (and thank god they did … otherwise I’d probably have peed all over his carpet and then god knows what he’d have done!), I’d checked out my arse in the mirror -- and was that a shock! Not that it was a surprise actually, because I knew all too well that the head girl had really laid into me. But Christ! It looked like a tropical sunset, a whole mass of crimson and purple clouds.

No wonder the headmaster and the matron had been having a weird conversation about the different canes and how many strokes he could still give me. Hard to believe but perhaps they were really worried about inflicting serious damage on my arse! So now I found myself imagining him staring at the pretty picture presented by my wretched bottom, wondering what further damage he was about to inflict – and then I was wondering myself what the hell it would finish up looking like -- probably a massive tropical storm with black storm clouds stretching across it – I’d caught sight of a great many welted arses in the showers during the last year or so – and was just feeling pleased at my poetic imagination, when …

I was yanked back to my senses as my knees suddenly started to tremble -- without being asked -- a glimpse of a sudden movement and … WHACK! Actually I’m sure that I registered a sharp SWISH just as the cane whacked hard into my arse. For a moment, it didn’t seem too bad, maybe no worse than the belt, but then my arse seemed to explode into my brain – or maybe it was the other way round -- anyway, everything else just vanished from my brain at that moment – maybe better to say that my brain itself seemed to disappear in a sort of a tidal wave of really, really serious pain, so serious that I couldn't even think. I just felt as though I’d totally dissolved into a massive cloud of agony.

It was really as though I lost consciousness for a moment or two and then came to, half upright clutching my scalded arse. I know my mouth was sort of gaping and my eyes were practically popping out of my head. I don’t think I’d ever felt anything so painful – but certainly not when I was just standing there helplessly (or bending over of course), not even moving – until I practically jumped out of my skin – and have something like that just sort of happen to me.

Thinking back to the way I was so totally shocked, I reckon that my experiences with the belt and then the tawse had got me used to the way pain would build up slowly in my arse. The end result (ha! ha!) was certainly very painful but my brain could manage each separate stroke, so long as I could keep gritting my teeth until the last one. And so I was still expecting something like that even with the cane. But then it was as though all that pain landed all at the same time and my poor brain just sort of short-circuited.

I kind of came back to my senses and realized that I was staring at the matron, who seemed to be just standing there quite calmly standing there … and looking at me … with raised eyebrows … and, I’m sure, a slight smile. Then she actually said something like:

“Well! Well! This isn’t so good, is it? You’re not bending over. Your hands are on your bottom. And you haven’t even counted! So how many extra strokes are you going to get now?! What do you think, headmaster?”

So the bloody man sort of hummed and hawed as though this was a really difficult question for him. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him tapping the cane in his left palm. Then he asked the matron for her “expert opinion” on whether my poor beaten-up arse could stand any extra strokes. He certainly didn’t ask me! She actually came over and peered carefully at my arse. I could feel her running her fingers over the cheeks and she finally said something about perhaps a couple of extra strokes would be OK, but more than that then they’d better “schedule” me for a second caning. So the headmaster actually asks me whether I understand that they’re trying to be helpful and can I behave myself for another twelve strokes, otherwise I’ll be back in two weeks for another twenty-two.

Well shit! I was barely capable of talking, let alone negotiating over the fate of my arse. I probably nodded and he told me to bend over again, “get your bottom up again” and stay in position, and COUNT! Until I was old I got stand up again!

God knows how, but I managed it. With each stroke my brain and arse just seemed to fuse together in an almighty shriek of pain. Weirdly, I heard the swish and crack of the cane quite distinctly, almost as though it had nothing to do with me – until the fire blazed up in my arse and my nerves just went into overload.

Actually, I even noticed that the “swish” sound seemed to change to a sharp “hiss” at some point. I noticed it partly because I’d once herd a large snake hiss and strike at an a****l that was attacking it. For some odd reason, the hiss and the crack of the cane made me jump with the thought that somehow a snake had suddenly attacked my arse! Luckily, I still managed to keep my fingers to the floor and even to gasp the count. I remember – it was “Eight strokes, thank you sir!”!! I know that the headmaster stopped a couple of times and went to fiddle about with his canes. I think he must have switched canes - in fact I even remember that he had been discussing some strange problem about “my bottom getting numb”!! Well, I can tell you, my arse was certainly getting numb, but equally certainly it didn’t stop hurting.

The really weird thing is – and I began to notice it at the time and now I’m starting to really wonder about it (OK diary! Explanation will follow!) – that the heat in my arse started to feel different somehow. I was used to it with the belt, of course, but this wasn’t the same. It was somehow warmer and even fuzzier, even though it hurt more. And – this is the weirdest part – I began to feel as though I actually wanted it. And I know that this had something to do with the fact that I could feel a glow almost spreading inside my arse. Not only there, but it seemed to reaching between my thighs, right into my quim.

When the headmaster finally told me to stand up, with the top of my brain, so to speak, I was seriously grateful, but it was almost as though I’d floated off into another space, and with the bottom of my brain I could almost believe that I wanted the caning to continue. I know my face seemed to be burning, as well as my arse, and I stared at the floor as I did what I was told, which was to stand up and straighten my clothes.

Then he added, in an almost friendly voice, that my punishment was now over and that he hoped I had learnt my lesson. And that, because my punishment had been quite severe, I could return with the matron to her sickroom, where she could provide some treatment that would help with the bruises.

I still felt I was in some kind of very strange dream, and I found myself walking away with the matron in an almost friendly mood, while she talked about how important strict discipline was, that it was obviously a big shock, getting a serious caning, but she believed that understanding and kindness was appropriate once the punishment was over, that I would certainly have painful bruising that might last two weeks or more – which would be much admired by my school friends, as she was sure that I was aware -- but that she would apply some ointment that might lessen the results.

Back in her sickroom I was rather nervous -- still in a kind of daze and not knowing really what was going on. Before I knew what was intended I found myself lying face down on her examination table – while she pulled my skirt back up and my panties back down, almost as though I was back in the headmaster’s study!

I was on the point of protesting, but she was very quick and before I could do so, I felt her fingers gently massaging by still-burning arse cheeks with some deliciously cold cream. So I just lay there, while the nightmare of the headmaster’s study rapidly started turning into something quite wonderful. I can say that it was one of the strangest moments of my life – even though it happened only a few hours ago. It was definitely stranger than all the horrible moments of the punishments that had led up to it.

And here’s what happened then – and I’m almost embarrassed to write about this, even in my diary in which I usually put EVERYthing.

The strange warmth that had started to invade my arse and quim as my caning came to an end started up again – and a lot stronger. I’m sure that she was actually encouraging it with her fingers, which were running gently along the edges of my bottom crack and even starting to feel their way into where my cheeks curved up in between my thighs.

I started to breathe faster and could barely resist pushing my arse and pussy back up against her softly massaging hands. I didn’t know what to think and was just about to completely lose control, when she suddenly stopped!

For a moment I could hardly breathe, and then she remarked quite calmly that my treatment was finished, but that, if I wished, I could return every day for the next weeks for another “go”, and that I should now get up and go back to my dormitory!

But then she remembered that she was, apparently, going away for a couple of days. Her assistant would be there, however. She knew all about the school rules and policies and the matron was sure that she’d be happy to continue the treatment. The matron herself, however, would be back in two to three days time, should I wish to wait till then!

If I’d been red in the face at the end of my caning, then I must have been scarlet now. But the matron seemed quite oblivious, simply wishing me a good evening – and remarking that there was a lavatory just down the corridor, should I need it. I bet she knew exactly what she was doing – and what I was going to do!

This was to head straight for the lavatory once I was outside the sickroom. Fortunately, there were no other girls round. So I went in, locked the door, pulled my skirt up and my panties down for the third time in a couple of hours, turning my back to the mirror, stretching my neck araound and trying desperately to examine the bruises covering my arse. I could see that it was crimson and black of course – the usual expression of being “beaten black and blue” was certainly accurate! And I could see and feel the dark ridges of the cane that crossed from one side of my crack to the other. I really wanted to get a better view – but I knew what I wanted even more! –

So I slid to the floor, lent back against the wall, pushed my fingers into my quim and frantically frigged my clit till I came in a terrific burst. Thank god no-one was near, because I was twisting and banging all over the place – gasping and crying out for sure.

I was wet. Really wet and sticky! I moved to the toilet, probably for several minutes. Cleaning up my cum – I didn’t know that girls could produce that much – and feeling the sore weals on my bottom, realizing that, somehow, it was the pain of the caning that had brought me here. Then I remembered te matron’s odd remark concerning her absence for two days – I knew that she understood something about me that I didn’t really understand myself. Should I go back when she’d returned? I felt certain that the surprises were not over. Would I visit her again? Probably, I thought!

Mean while, I had to face my school mates back in the house. Was I going to be my usual shy and stand-offish self? Obviously I wouldn’t be able to hide what had happened to my arse – maybe I should try to make the most of it?!

And indeed, the day’s surprises were not over. I didn’t know what to expect when I got back to the dormitory, but I discovered that everyone already knew about my beating! Apparently someone had guessed that I was getting into serious trouble and had been brave enough to get into the waiting room and listen through the door. I was famous!

Several girls really wanted to examine my bottom right there and then. It was hardly convenient, but I suddenly realized that this was my major opportunity – for both profit and popularity!. Some of them offered ready cash, so in a hidden corner I raised my skirt and lowered my panties yet once more, allowing them a brief look and an even quicker feel. Their excitement was quite something. One of them suddenly pushed her fingers between my thighs and into my quim, giving a squeal of delight,

“Oh my god! She’s all sticky! She’s frigged herself off! Give us a proper look!”

I might have actually got angry, but instead I took the opening and ran with it, as they say.

“Too bad! You’ll have to wait. I