Mrs Walcott stood at the window and gazed upon the snow-capped mountains that framed the valley. She hadn’t been waiting long but she was becoming impatient. Even the the the ancient clock behind her sounded lackluster as it slowly marked the time.

She was a tall dour woman clad in dark grey, a look only occasionally changed to Scottish tweed. Her dark hair was streaked with white and hung to her shoulder in a 1930s bluestocking style untroubled by vanity. Nor did she smile much. But when she did, her girls knew they were in trouble.

Finally there was a knock at the door and Mrs Walcott relaxed. Now she was in no hurry.

“Come in,” she said after an age had passed while pointedly not turning around.

The door swung in with a drawn out creak before closing with a heavy thud, but otherwise there was no sound to indicate that anyone had entered. Then the principal of Closter Ladies College turned around.

Zoe Fenchurch looked nervous, as well she might. She was a petite girl with dark straight bobbed hair cut in an immaculate dome just above the shoulder with a fringe running dangerously close to her eye line. She wore expensive black flat shoes and a dark blue cashmere dress that tastefully matched her eyes and fell demurely to her stockinged knees. Today she stood a little hunched with her chin almost resting on her chest as she cast her gaze downwards.

“How long have you been at this college Miss Fenchurch?” Mrs Walcott asked pointedly.

Zoe shrugged.

“Your father has paid a lot of money on horses and other extras, not to mention another two goes around for you to tackle you’re A Levels. All with a view to finishing you, as we say, and sending you out into the world,” Mrs Walcott said in a strained voice.

Zoe shrugged again and licked her lips.

“And you don’t know how long you have been here?” Mrs Walcott continued.

“It is my second year Miss,” Zoe muttered, tossing an imagined hair from her eyes. Her fringe was getting long.

“Your second year,” Mrs Walcott agreed. “So you know the town is out of bounds during the week.”

“Yes Miss,” Zoe said sullenly.

“Please desist in addressing me as if you were an inmate of an East End secondary modern, Miss Fenchurch. You are the miss, not I. You will address me as Mrs Walcott or ma’am,” Mrs Walcott sighed.

“Yes Miss… eh… Ma’am,” Zoe mumbled.

“Your father is concerned that you only managed a C in your English,” Mrs Walcott said, “An improvement on a D, I grant you, but it doesn’t look very good does it?”

Zoe shrugged.

“Also, there have been some complaints about you being rough with the horses, turning up late to croquet practice… in fact there is quite a litany of failings attributed to you aren’t there?” Mrs Walcott groaned.

“I don’t know Miss,” Zoe shrugged, “eh… I mean… eh… ma’am.”

“You don’t?” Mrs Walcott allowed herself to sound surprised. “Well let me tell you that there very much is.”

“Oh,” Zoe said with a shrug. At this point she began to look bored and dragged the toe of one shoe along the floor as she tugged at her dress.

“Most girls come here at 18 and stay for one term,” Mrs Walcott said in a brittle voice. The girl’s demeanour did not go unnoticed. “Others like you come at 19 or even 20 and stay for a year or two depending on how far behind they were with their studies and what other requirements they have in addition to finishing.”

“That’s very interesting,” Zoe said insincerely.

“Indeed,” Mrs Walcott said icily, “Your father is… rather peeved that you may end up staying with us for another year.”

“But…” Zoe suddenly took notice. Another year would be awful, she thought.

“He wants us to help you buck your ideas up,” Mrs Walcott said sharply, “And he has given me cart blanche, so to speak, to assist you with this.” As she spoke Mrs Walcott walked around the desk and took a long dark brown stick from the long draw of her desk. “He doesn’t expect straight A’s, not anymore, or even a polished jewel of a girl. But he does expect a minimum standard for his generosity and certain level of decorum.”

Zoe visibly baulked at the rattle of the stick on the desktop. She had heard things and also seemed to remember her brother teasing her about some beastly ‘old school’ punishments mentioned in the brochure. The stick, she didn’t admit the word ‘cane,’ was a strange object to her and she refused to consider any implications of its presence.

“There are certain sanctions reserved for difficult girls and for those girls whose husbands and fathers feel the need for stiffer guidance,” Mrs Walcott continued. “Setting aside your academic failings and your reckless carelessness with regard to other girls and instructors, you did dangerously and thoughtlessly go into town whilst knowing that it is strictly forbidden. So I intend to deal with you accordingly.”

Zoe’s eyes widened and she gaped at the cane on the desk. She had been supposing that its presence was a warning; a mere hint of dark alternatives should she continue to displease. She had been certain that she would get another chance.

“Wh-what are you going to do?” Zoe asked with a growing sense of horror.

“Why Miss Fenchurch, I am going to cane you,” Mrs Walcott said brightly and smiled.

Zoe opened her mouth and closed it.

“Unless you care to withdraw consent, of course, but then I am to inform you that you must leave,” Mrs Walcott added.

“Couldn’t I just…?” Zoe pointed to a random point on the wall desperately hoping there was an alternative. I mean, she thought, there just had to be. This couldn’t be happening.

“Do you wish me to inform you father that you refuse my guidance?” Mrs Walcott asked in a formal voice.

Zoe shook her head. It was a small resigned movement that suggested a horror of an unthinkable failure.

“What are you going to do?” Zoe asked again.

“Why Miss Fenchurch, I should have thought that was obvious,” Mrs Walcott said as she took up the cane.

“I mean…” Zoe licked her lips nervously and hugged herself. “What do I… what is going to h-happen?”

Mrs Walcott sighed heavily. In the old days this would have been routine. Most girls wouldn’t have escaped their fate after the first failure.

“I intend to cane you soundly on your bare bottom,” she said, “So I require you to remove your under things and hose, if you are wearing them, and then raise your dress to your waist. Then you bend over the desk and present your bottom.”

Zoe gasped.

“You can’t Miss, you just can’t,” she wailed.

Mrs Walcott waited. She was aware of the clock again, no doubt both of them were. The only other sound was Zoe’s breathing, rendered more laboured by some figurative handwringing.

The girl was blushing and after a moment looked around her. Whether this was for witnesses or for aid, Mrs Walcott couldn’t tell. Then Zoe took a breath and dipped at the waist as she fumbled under skirts for something. A moment later she tugged down her white cotton briefs and neatly stepped out of them.

Mrs Walcott gave her a hard stare.

“I’m not wearing tights,” Zoe whispered.

The principal looked unimpressed at this inconsequential news and for the longest moment time hung between them.

Finally, sensing no succour,  Zoe began slowly rolling up the lower part of her dress as she turned to the desk. After a pause she half bent forward to hoist the hem a little way off her bottom.

Mrs Walcott could indeed see that Zoe was wearing only hold up stockings but she was far from satisfied.

“Higher,” she ordered.

Zoe lifted her dress a little more.

“Higher, I said, and get your bottom up. I want to see you dip your back and stick out your behind,” the principal said impatiently.

Zoe went peony in the face but did as she was told.

“A little more, and keep your feet together,” Mrs Walcott barked.

Eventually a very reluctant Zoe was bent right over the desk with her smallish pert white bottom uppermost and her head down so that her hair brushed the desk top.

“I never give less than eight and then only as a reprimand. By rights you have a serious bill to pay,” the principal growled.

It was a very sad and humble Zoe who risked a peek at her tormentor under her heavy fringe. Then with sad eyes she whispered, “Yes Ma’am.”

It was an easy acknowledgement, Zoe was sure that the current humiliation was about as bad as it could get. What were a few taps with a cane compared with this embarrassment?

“I’ll make it just 10 this time, but if you don’t take them all in a sufficiently ladylike manner I’ll have you back this afternoon and we will start over. Do you understand?” Mrs Walcott said firmly.

“Oh yes Ma’am,” Zoe gasped as the principal lined herself up to strike.

The first stroke came as a surprise. Zoe had barely understood the hiss of the cane cutting the air, still less that the thwack was of wood meeting her bottom. Only when the searing bite reached her brain did she join the dots. She ejaculated a sharp angry howl.

Her bottom jiggled as she pumped her heels on the spot and was certain nothing could have hurt her more. Then what had begun as pain grew so that a line of pure agony sawed across her bottom cheeks. Still bent over, she danced on the spot, describing small circles as she gripped the desk and hissed out pain from her clenched jaw.

She was still dealing with that stroke when Mrs Walcott delivered the next.

“Oh sheeesh,” she yelped and buckled at the knees in a vain attempt to make her bottom smaller.

“Keep your bottom up and your legs straight,” Mrs Walcott chided her.

Zoe couldn’t manage a ‘yes ma’am’ and only nodded as she strived to comply.

The next three did not go well and Zoe leapt up and grabbed her bottom. There without shame she bounced around the room rubbing furiously at her behind.

“So you wish to come back later?” the principal said wearily.

“Oh no Ma’am, please I…” Zoe’s words were damp and a tear rolled down her right cheek.

“Then you will take two extra for that display, now bend back over,” her tormentor told her.

Miserably and fearing a repeat of the whole ordeal to date, Zoe bent back over the desk and heroically stuck her bottom out.

She held out for the next stroke and then two more before bucking up and yelling out. But she quickly restored her position and Mrs Walcott let the slip go.

The girl’s bottom had eight vivid purplish lines across it now. Each one stood out a little like a ridge and looked extremely raw. They ran in parallel from the tops of the buttocks down at roughly equal intervals to the under curves of her bottom to where her curves met the thighs. Here they bunched together somewhat and the redness had begun to flood into the surrounding white flesh.

Zoe was whimpering now too and her shoulders shook gently.

“I trust I am making my point?” the principle said sternly.

“Yes Ma’am,” Zoe replied, her voice now forlorn.

The last four strokes were purgatory and Zoe learned that 12 were twice as bad as eight. But it wasn’t until the last, and Mrs Walcott told her she could stand, did she really let go with an outpouring of sobbing.

“That’s it,” Mrs Walcott said gently, “Go and face that wall and have a good cry. Afterwards you can shake my hand and thank me as tradition dictates.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Zoe sobbed.

As Zoe obeyed Mrs Walcott surveyed her work and pondered. Caning a girl was rare enough these days, but it was still a service that some needed. In her experience girls fell into two camps; those that were caned and never came back and those for some reason that returned over and over again. With the latter kind one only needed to tighten the rules until they got what they needed and still complied. The principal wondered which Zoe would turn out to be.