Angela’s story: the aftermath

29Oct09

!angela06

Angela’s story continues:

After I had left David Ashley’s office I walked very slowly, taking pigeon steps, down the hall to the senior girls cloakroom. I took a moment to tug my knickers down and to look at a vicious set of purple ribs scoring my behind. Then I grabbed a huge wad of paper towels and soaked them in water and locked myself in a cubical.

I pasted the wet towels to my bottom like a papier-mâché cast and knelt on the toilet seat with my knickers down and my skirt around my waist. To my surprise, I started to cry again. To my further surprise, it actually felt good.

I realised that I had been so tense over the last few days. I had been wracked with guilt and apprehension about what I had done and what was to happen. I now felt cleansed as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. True that for the moment it felt as if the weight had been transferred to my bottom, which felt twice the size as normal. But I knew that would pass.

After about half an hour I felt ready to face the world.

Luckily I had a study period so I didn’t have to sit in class. Instead I made my way down the stairs to the library, taking care to go the long way around with small painful steps by a less public route. Not only did I wince a little at each step but my whole demeanour shouted to the world girl with caned bottom coming through.

Sitting down was out of the question so I spent the whole afternoon standing among the shelves avoiding any company. I think I assumed that by registration normal service would resume but as home time approached I realised that if went to my registration class for end of day notices and to sign out there was no way my predicament would not become common knowledge. So I hoped my tutor would guess the reason for my absence and decided to make a break for the bus.

“You alright?” One of my classmates asked as I tried to slip away.

I just forced a smile and nodded and luckily, they did not ask further. I just made the bus before the last school bell so I was the only student on board. The bus was empty so I attracted a few stares when I opted to stand. An old lady in particular eyed me suspiciously and then caught me wincing as the bus slew around a tight corner. Then she smiled knowingly and pointedly glanced around and down at the seat of my skirt. I blushed and shrugged giving her a rueful smile. I think I derived a strange sort of thrill form that shared secret but at the next stop a fat middle aged woman got on.

“Standing up love? Why is that? Have you been a naughty girl?” She said loudly with a raucous laugh.

It was probably only her idea of a joke, but my responding blush and open look that I wanted a hole to open at my feet rather gave the game away and an old gent sitting towards the back had a little chuckle.

I got off at the next stop and despite my awkward gait, decided to hoof it home.

When I got home mum said I was grounded and sent me to my room. I didn’t really want to be anywhere else anyway but being grounded at 19 was more than a little embarrassing. When I got to my room I lay face down on my bed and began my lines.

They were much harder to write than even I had supposed. And every line on the page was an intensely embarrassing reminder of the lines across my bottom.

‘Naughty girls who funk punishment deserve to be very soundly caned on their bottoms’ one thousand times. I groaned. I realised I deserved it, even on top of my caning. In a way I had betrayed David Ashley’s trust. There was a sort of thrilling comfort in that realisation.

Two hours later dad came home and brought me up a sandwich.

“You OK?” He gave me a tight sympathetic smile. “Is it all over?”

“Almost, apart from mum.” I smiled back. “Thanks dad.”

“She doesn’t know. I hope it wasn’t too bad.”

He knew. I had never been so embarrassed in my life. I must have blushed.

“Don’t be angry. I suggested it as a way out to avoid you getting expelled. Mr Ashley said he would consider it if you agreed.”

My anger at being betrayed by Mr Ashley was misplaced and dad didn’t know about our arrangement, just about this caning because he thought it was his idea.

“Its alright dad.” I blushed furiously. “It is just so embarrassing.”

“So I probably shouldn’t bring it up on parents night.” He grinned.

I threw a pillow at him. He laughed.

“Stay out of your mums way, she’ll get over it.”

Then he left me with my lines.

The next day my bottom was worse if anything. My hand also ached form doing 300 lines and still had 700 to go. I inspected my bottom and apart from a lone ridge just below the top of my cleft, my bottom was covered in plum coloured streaks all close together on the lower part so that they formed a single swollen band where I sat.

I forced myself through the agony of doing knee bends. Not sitting down was going to be awkward, but limping around school with mincing gait was out of the question. It would be like having a neon sign over my head saying ‘look who has been caned’.

Fortunately after breakfast and by the time I had to leave, outwardly at least, I had begun to take on some semblance of normality.

I actually began to feel good going into school, I still felt cleansed and reborn and my aching little secret made me feel special. I also took a secret little thrill from doing my lines in class while people took turns reading Shakespeare aloud. I was becoming quite adept at sitting without sitting with my leg tucked under my thighs to keep my bottom off the seat of the chair.

I didn’t have to see David Ashley until the next day and by then I could almost sit without wincing. I asked him about what my dad had said.

“Yes quite awkward that.” He chuckled. “He was very keen that you didn’t waste all that progress you had made.”

“My mum doesn’t know. I think dad is right in not telling her. She’d beat the crap out of me if she thought I’d touch weed again but she’ll go mental if she finds out you have been whacking her precious daughter.”

We spent the rest of our session talking about the Cabal and the Exclusion Crisis.

The rest of the term went largely without incident. It was mostly taken up with revision and mocks. Mr Ashley had suggested that if I did not get at least C plus for each of my mock A level exams he would give me six-of-the-best for each failure.

“That’s 18 strokes I would die.” I gaped. “Are you serious?”

He laughed.

“What if I were?” He chuckled. “I bet we would have better grades from you.”

I blushed and looked at my shoes.

“You’re not supposed to cane me for that are you?” I whispered.

“No it’s not really a recognised teaching technique. Of course I was joking.” He laughed. “In any case I have every confidence in you.”

As I was leaving, I felt a strange warm glow and a tickle down my spine.

“Sir, if you really did cane me for messing up my mocks, it would be alright, I would accept it from you if I deserved it.” I said meekly. “But sir,18 that’s killing, I wouldn’t sit down until Christmas.”

To be continued.



One Response to “Angela’s story: the aftermath”

  1. 1 canemaster

    A brilliant story. You have captured the essence of the naughty school girl having a guilty conscience and receiving a sound caning as punishment. I look forward to reading more about her.


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