Cane and Consequence (part 1 of 4)


a caningCatherine sat on the end of her bed and stared at the paddle much as she had at the judge who had sent her here. It was hung on the door by a nail like a sign or a statement of intent.

The paddle itself was near two feet long and leaf-shaped. It had been fashioned from hard leather and although Catherine had not yet dare touch it, she was certain it was heavy.

Her cell, and that’s just what it was she reminded herself, was more like something out of a fashionable boarding school with tasteful prints and hardback books. It might even have been her room from her old school except for the en suite shower arrangements.

She turned back to the paddle and wished it away.

“Ooh, this is ridiculous,” she spat angrily, although there was no one to hear.

As the words escaped her well-formed pouty lips she drew up her long elegant legs so that both her smooth silk-encased knees came together level with her mohair covered breasts before dropping onto the floor in a double stamp.

Catherine hated her outburst and usually prided herself on her cool reserve. She had so hoped to get through the charade of this alternative sanction with the minimum of fuss or any assaults on her dignity. She was certain that good manners and keeping her cool would convince her gaolers that she didn’t require re-education and that she had already learned her lesson.

Then she had been confronted by the damn paddle; a humiliating warning of what she might yet endure.

“Catherine I had to pull an awful lot of strings to get you this alternative sentence,” her father had told at the lawyer’s office before the trial. “It’s practically an open prison and best of all; it won’t count as a custodial sentence on your record. That will look so much better for your future.”

“All you have to do is enter a guilty plea and show some contrition,” the lawyer put in, “A year to 18 months is not so bad, believe me. After that stunt pulled by your friend you could face three years in Holloway otherwise.”

Catherine closed her eyes in horror. She did not want to dwell on what Rupert Kemp had left in the bath of the flat. It was all too vulgar. It had only started as a prank. How was she to know that things would get so out of hand?

“Daddy can’t you just make it all go away?” She had pleaded.

Her father had looked back at her with sad eyes and whispered, “Not this time petal.”

Back in her room at Hardham House she sighed and then aloud she said, “Damn.”


Melanie Quaid stood to attention in front of the Assistant Principal and House Mother, Jeanette Barry. Her legs were easily spaced and her hands were clasped into the small of her back as she had been taught.

Melanie was a tall slim girl who had been at Hardham Hall for over a year now and the hard arsed gang-girl she had once been was now unrecognisable.

Jeanette remembered when the 23-year-old had had bright red hair with blue streaks and more ironmongery on her face than the local hardware shop. The young woman’s non-descript dark mousy blonde hair was now tidy after a fashion, with a reasonable fringe falling forward from a pony tail.

Being of similar height, the House Mother matched her brown eyes to the girl’s blue, daring her to eyeball her.

“That’s the third time this week, I thought you knew better Melanie,” Jeanette growled just inches from the younger woman’s nose. “I rather think Mr Alexander will have something to say don’t you?”

“Yes Ma’am,” Melanie said in a tight voice. “I’m sorry Ma’am.”

The girl had been on laundry duty and had mixed the coloured with the whites again. Now several house sheets were pink instead of white.

“Well, you had better cut along and see him hadn’t you?” Jeanette said with a sigh.

“Eh… Ms Barry, eh… couldn’t you… um… handle it?” Melanie ventured nervously.

“I handled it on Tuesday after the second mistake. Remember?” Jeanette said wearily. “Don’t think I don’t know what you were doing. You were mixing the batches for fewer washes so that you could skive off early.”


“I really wouldn’t deny it if I were you,” Jeanette said pointedly. “Or you will take a well paddled behind off to meet Mr Alexander’s tender ministrations.”

“Yes Ma’am, I mean No Ma’am.”

The two women stared at each other for a moment longer until Jeanette said, “Well?”

“Oh… yes, Mr Alexander.”

After one more hopeful look at the house mother Melanie scurried away.


The afternoon sun through the great long gallery windows caused orange rectangles to fall across the parquet floor. The air was full of the scent of hardwood and polish that she knew she would remember all her life.

As Melanie stepped into each in turn it felt pleasantly warm and she wondered how many times she had walked this hall to Mr Alexander’s office. The tingle in her tummy was intense and she could feel the blood coursing through her head, which left her a little dizzy.

Melanie remembered her first few trips to see Mr Alexander. She had been angry and resentful. How childish I was, she thought, even managing a smile. After the second or third little meeting, she had been more scared than angry and had quickly made efforts to conform. The change in her treatment here and above all in herself had been a revelation.

After that, instead of resentment, she had felt cleansed, as if a weight had been lifted from her. Then she had begun to see herself and her life for what it was, so that these days her falls from grace were relatively rare and she could see that all her punishments were deserved.

Then the panelled door was in front of her and her heart began to race as if her previous nerves had been a rehearsal.

“Well here goes…” she whispered as she tapped lightly on the door.

The moment became glacial and for a small eon of time she though that there would be no reply.

She was about to try again when she heard a movement from within and a sharp voice called out, “Come in.”


The knock at the door startled Catherine and she stood up. Everyone in this place was her foe and she wanted to meet the enemy standing up. Then bravely she said, “Come in.”

The door was opened with a brusque confidence and Jeanette Barry stepped into the room.

Jeanette was a little taller than Catherine and she had darker tone that suggested the Mediterranean.

“How are we settling in?” The house mother asked with an easy smile.

Her friendly tone fell on deaf ears and Catherine scowled at her.

“Why are you new here too?” The younger woman sneered.

Jeanette frowned.

“I wasn’t born an assistant principal,” she replied, “And we all have to start somewhere. You can start by minding your manners. Now let us try again. I have settled in nicely thanks and some time ago. So I really have seen it all. How are you settling in?”

Catherine shrugged.

“Stand up straight and answer when you are spoken to,” Jeanette snapped.

“The room is okay and I have unpacked and sent my luggage to the storeroom as instructed.” Catherine spoke woodenly and made the minimum effort to accommodate her stance.

“Good,” Jeanette said pleasantly, “That is better.”

“I am so glad that you are pleased,” Catherine replied with a bitter edge to her voice that only just managed to fall short of sarcasm.

“Tell me, why did you choose to come here?” Jeanette said ignoring the younger woman.

Catherine shrugged again.

“Did you think it was an easy option?”

Catherine cringed inside and didn’t reply. She didn’t want to talk about it.

“Actually it is,” Jeanette said casually, “That surprises you doesn’t it, that I would say that?”

It did, Catherine realised. Her eyes narrowed and she considered. At school the pep talk would have been all about how tough it was, how the hard way was the easy option with all the usual platitudes.

“Here you get half a sentence in pleasant surroundings and instead of being brutalised and rendered unfit for society, you get to learn who you are,” Jeanette explained. “However, the question is, how easy do you want it? You can have an unpleasant 18 months or an interesting and challenging year. Which do you want?”

Catherine resisted the urge to shrug again and considered the point just made. She wasn’t stupid and at least the woman was being honest.

“You may answer,” Jeanette said.

“I’ll take the year,” Catherine said quietly. She felt like a five-year-old being scolded by her nanny in the nursery.

“Good,” Jeanette said with a huge sigh of relief. “Now that we have got that straight you had better know this. If you ever speak to me like that again I will put you across my knee and spank your precious little bare bottom until it is purple. Do you understand?”

Catherine’s lips stuck together and it was hard to open her mouth to speak and she was blushing. Finally she managed to say, “Yes.”

“Then before dinner I suggest you walk around the grounds and get to know the place. It is all quite simple, obey the rules and you will have that easy time you came here for. Don’t or give me any attitude and I will put you in your place and that place will mostly likely be the corner.”

Catherine nodded dumbly until Jeanette glared at her.

“Yes,” Catherine said in a whisper.

But Jeanette still wasn’t satisfied and continued to glare at her.

“Yes Ma’am,” Catherine quickly amended.

“Lovely,” Jeanette beamed.


Alexander had a kindly face that was constantly at war with itself whenever he tried to look stern. He had clear blue eyes that crinkled at the corners whenever he smiled and despite having topped 40 his hair was still dark, albeit a little receded. He was not especially tall, although not altogether short, standing near a head taller than Melanie who stood before him in a rough approximation of attention.

“Do I have to ask why you are here again?” He said in a disappointed voice.

“No Sir,” Melanie replied, a look of regret stealing across her face.

“Any excuses, reasons of mitigation or special requests for clemency?” he offered.

“No Sir, I am sorry though,” Melanie grimaced.

“So the dog didn’t eat your homework?”

“Homework Sir? No I messed up the…” Melanie began.

Alexander held up his hand and shook his head. “Please spare me Miss Quaid. I really don’t want to hear it.”

“No Sir.”

“Alright you know what happens next,” Alexander said wearily as he moved over to the cabinet at the far end of his study.

“Yes Sir,” Melanie sighed and began unbuttoning her skirt at the hip.

By the time Alexander had turned around with the cane she was already putting the folded skirt onto the seat of the chair and turning to face its back.

“Over we go,” Alexander ordered.

Melanie gritted her teeth and then after the briefest hesitation hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her knickers and slid them down her thighs. To minimise her exposure to him she quickly bent over the back of the chair and presented him with a view of her smooth pale bottom, which was neatly divided into two elongated globes.

Once she was in position her small prominent buttocks became pert and round and on closer examination Alexander could see a hint of peachy fuzz dusting her curves.

“How many was it last time?” Alexander asked as he slashed the air once with the cane.

“Sixteen Sir, if you recall I…”

“Yes, yes, I remember,” he said, cutting her off, “So how many do you suggest this time?”

It was the custom at Hardham to make a girl offer up her own sanction in accordance with an agreed formula. Like hanging paddles on the back of the girls’ bedroom doors and a dozen other little rules, he found that it created the right sort of psychological atmosphere.

“Eighteen Sir,” Melanie offered tentatively.

She might have said 17 and had still been within the rules, but after months of experience, she knew it was an inappropriate number and if he didn’t agree then he would make her suggest another, which by custom was required to be more than she first should have suggested and then he would add at least one penalty stroke.

Also given the clemency she had been shown by Ms Barry at the start of the week, he would have been within his rights to demand a higher count in any case. If incorrectly handled, 17 could have become 21 or 22 strokes as she would have been obliged to suggest 20 to make amends.

Mr Alexander might still reject 18 of course, but then she could still offer her behind up for 20 strokes in good faith and little would have been lost.

“Eighteen it is then,” Alexander said with a note of satisfaction.

Melanie relaxed a little. It was fair.

The first stroke cut across like the sword of justice and her eyes flew open. Her right leg kicked a little and she couldn’t help hook her foot up behind her left knee in a response. The cut continued saw long after contact was broken and the pain went on building.

Alexander was in no hurry. He waited while the stark white-on-pale line turned first pink and then deep plum and rose up in shocked rebellion from the surrounding flesh. Then he cut in two breadths of a stick below it.

“Uh,” Melanie grunted, violently wagging her bottom to shake off the sting.

Again Alexander waited until the corporal’s stripes had her attention and then he sharply promoted her to sergeant.

“Jesus Christ,” she hissed.

Alexander ignored her and after a short pause, took three or four minutes to double the count. On the sixth stroke Melanie gasped angrily and then as the pain built she began to shake as tears spilled from her eyes.

“Tell me Melanie, how long do you have to be in my good books before the count rolls back to a six or eight?” Alexander waited patiently for the answer.

It was a long time coming as Melanie could scarce catch her breath. Then finally she said in a thick wet voice, “One month Sir.”

“Good, just 28 days to be precise,” Alexander agreed, “And how many strokes could it get up to in just one month if you are not a good girl?”

Melanie was breathing heavily now. Few girls got as high as 18 before either getting into the clear or reaching a waypoint in the calendar like Christmas when all sanctions were reset. Melanie really loved Christmas and other such times, she rarely got out of jug on her own account.

“It’s a simple enough question Miss Quaid,” Alexander said drily.

“Yes Sir,” Melanie sobbed. She didn’t like the implications of his questions.

She ran the formula in her head as best she could. Six or eight rising to nine, then 10; skip 11, so 12, 14, 15, 16, 18, 20, 21, 22, 24, 25, 30, thereafter increments of four or two so that every two punishment it went up by six. Her mind raced. “Seventy-two,” she ventured.

“Quite possibly, and that is in just one month, assuming a punishment almost every day,” Alexander explained. “Although generally two visits a week with me is caning it, if you pardon the pun.”

“Yes Sir.”

“With you, if it wasn’t for our little amnesties, then you would get there quite often, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes Sir.”

“You see where I am going with this?” Alexander tapped her welted bottom with his cane.

“Yes Sir.”

“So behave,” he said sharply resuming the caning.

“Yah, shsss,” she yelped, or something like it.

Nearly halfway, nearly halfway, nearly halfway, the mantra ran through her head.

To be continued.

9 Responses to “Cane and Consequence (part 1 of 4)”

  1. 1 darwinian

    This has all the makings of another winning series, detail and background, fantastic interaction and scope for more to unfold. thanks for your hard work.

  2. 2 paul1510

    your productivity is amazing, plus the fact that your quality trends ever upward. 🙂 😉
    Can you tell that I am looking forward to parts two and three in the fullness of time 😀

  3. 3 cindy


    This is a great story and I look forward to the next installment.


  4. 4 Raffe


    Another sweet and shot series, I am looking forward to see if either of the girls get to 72.


  5. 5 DJ

    Thanks guys.

    It was another short that like topsy growed and growed.

    But I should wrap this one up before Christmas.

    all the best DJ 🙂

  6. love love love love… christmas come early! 😀

  7. 8 Fidel

    Look everybody has there different kinks but I hate it when clothing is actually removed. The skirt should be raised not taken off

  8. In all four photo’s of the cane and consequences series, Let the cane pain the naughty female. That is why this corporal punishment implement is used, upon her naked derriere.

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