A Visit to the Head


school caneThe acrid smell of old wood and wax polish assailed her nose and she was immediately transported back. Even the maroon paint rising to shoulder height halfway up the magnolia painted corridor walls hadn’t changed. Amanda smiled affectionately and she straightened herself. Heels and toes, heels and toes; the mantra ran through her mind as she launched herself down the length of the parquet floor to the headmaster’s office.

Like unrelenting sentinels, to her left were a row of metal lockers; a recent coat of grey paint having done nothing to disguise the repeated assault of a dozen generations of careless schoolgirls. One of them had been hers and not so long ago, but it was difficult now to pick it out from its fellows.

Above the line of lockers were high windows flooding the corridor with surly yellow light, a nasty consequence of a north facing wall overlooking the quad. Amanda made a wry smile. The quad was an elegant brick square reminiscent of cloisters. However, being out of bounds to all students its only purpose was to permit tardy masters and mistresses to take a short cut to the far side of college. An unconscious hand strayed to her behind as she remembered the consequences of straying into this preserve.

Amanda stopped at sound far off, the noise an alien intruder in the calm quiet that existed between classes. In another hour a bell would sound and a thousand young females would explode from every dusty portal in a cacophony of earnest gossip. She tugged at her blazer, surprised that it still fit, which was more than could be said of her skirt. The later article was tight across her bum now and caused the hem to ride up an inch or two above the minimum length.

This would have been anther heinous crime once upon a time and her tummy tingled in horrified expectation least this too be added to her sins. It was all she needed to be taken to task for this as well. Amanda sighed and made tentative steps up the hall again.

Heels and toes, heels and toes… Amanda sighed and strode on.

The corridor ended all too abruptly at the headmaster’s door and she stopped. It had always been a forbidding fortress and now if anything it looked even more daunting. The woodgrain was hard and polished; a knuckle-tap from doom. Little decorative ravens with carved faces at the frame seemed to mock her and Amanda thought of the laughter of crows before a feast upon the dead. A curious design, she thought, no doubt a whimsy of the great family who had once owned this hall.

Amanda straightened her beret and remembered she had once been head girl. Then with a final sigh she tapped thrice upon the door.

“Enter,” said a mellifluous voice from within.

Amanda felt meek now and could only manage to lean her upper body through the door as she opened it. It was almost as if being half out of the room she still had a chance to flee.

“A senior are you?” Dr Grayson posed the question from his wooden throne set back behind his heavy carved desk.

He was of uncertain age and grey. Even his suit was grey, as if mid-way between black and white he was an arbiter of good and evil. In a sense he was, Amanda thought ruefully.

“I have a red slip,” she said nervously and offered him a small pink paper from her blazer pocket.

The small disciplinary notes were called red slips, although the paper was pink like the financial pages. They were generally only issued to very recalcitrant students deemed unsuitable for summary correction.

Grayson tutted and made a purse of his mouth. “A senior girl is it, you do look familiar,” he said sternly.

“I’m new,” she lied.

“Ah…” he nodded, “That might explain it,” he added carefully.

Amanda waited half in and half out as she still pondered taking flight.

“Well, come in,” Grayson growled.

“Yes Sir,” Amanda said crisply and straightened up before taking her first full step inside.

“The door,” Grayson barked as Amanda made to walk out of its reach.

Amanda rolled her eyes and set her teeth wincing as she scurried back to close it.

“Note,” the headmaster made that one word gain an extra syllable or two as he extended a hand to take the red slip.

She took a slow two part breath and gave him the paper without meeting his eyes. She knew what was on it, although students were no supposed to know.

“Is this true?” Grayson said sternly, his eyes were fixed upon her like the fate of the world depended on her answer.

Amanda had missed such melodrama.

“Yes Sir,” she agreed reluctantly.

It was a safe answer, even if she didn’t know what spin was supposed to have accrued to the words. It meant she accepted her fate.

“Are you sure?” Grayson asked doubtfully.

A moment of panic gripped Amanda and she froze. Maybe this had gone too far, or she had or the note….

“Don’t answer that,” Grayson sighed, “Your reticence does you credit.” After rereading the missive he added, “Your first such offence?”

Amanda bit her lip. “No Sir, she whispered, my third actually.”

It was almost true. There had been in fact two previous such offences. However, the events listed out in this note had a slightly oblique origin, but were no less true for that. It was better this time if the details were obfuscated.

“If you have been caught thrice, then I can be fairly sure that there have been other such offences that have escaped detection,” Grayson sighed.

“Yes Sir,” Amanda winced. There seemed no sense in denying it.

“Honest at least,” Grayson chuckled. “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to make this your last offence can I?” he added wearily.

“I thought that was why I was here,” Amanda said somewhat cheekily.

Grayson looked as if she had spat in his face. “Indeed,” he said sharply. “I don’t recall now, have you been to see me before or did your housemaster handle this?”

“Once my housemaster and once you Sir,” Amanda said honestly.

“Then you know how this goes don’t you girl?” Grayson’s sigh was a heavy one and he glanced at his watch and then at a stack of paperwork on his desk.

Amanda drew her mouth into a tight line and made to undo her blazer. There was no going back now, she thought bitterly. She felt sick.

Grayson looked annoyed as he crossed the room to a closet. While his back was turned Amanda removed her jacket and then after a moment reluctantly tackled her skirt.

“Up or down,” she asked sorrowfully as he returned with the cane.

“You mean your…?” he coughed, “Off I think, but wait until you are facing the arm of the chair.”

Amanda nodded and dressed only in her blouse and tie above the waist she turned to face the large battered armchair in the corner. Something of an old friend, she thought ruefully as she stepped out of her knickers and leaned right over the arm.

“Heels together and get your head right down on the seat,” Grayson instructed as he took hold of the long thin cane.

“Yes Sir,” Amanda said as she blushed hotly. It took some wriggling to shunt down properly and she was acutely aware that her bare bottom was now sticking right up.

Time paused and the only sound was Amanda’s breath. She had forgotten the dread, and she felt a crawling itch like eager ants across the flesh of her bottom.

“What house are you in?” Grayson asked abruptly as if puzzled by something.

“Bailey, Sir,” Amanda answered.

“And you say I have seen you before?” the headmaster had picked an awkward time for a conversation.

“Yes Sir, but it has been a while,” Amanda explained, her voice muffled by the surrounding arms of the armchair.

“But you said you were new?” Grayson persisted.

Amanda winced and pondered how to answer.

“Oh well,” the headmaster said with a shrug in his voice.

The cane cut was sudden and as sharp as a well-honed white hot razor.

“Ahhh,” Amanda gasped. Shit, shit, shit… she cursed inwardly. She had forgotten.

Another line of pain sliced her just below where the first stroke was still sawing home and she cried out again.

This was… this… oh the lord god of ice cream and all things unholy… Amanda you fool…

This twisted train of thought was superseded by another stroke that made her shout. Two or three beats passed and three strokes became four and then five.

“Sons of Satan,” Amanda spat and slapped at the seat of the chair with a free hand as number six burrowed into where she sat.

Grayson studied the six plum lines scoring the neat white bottom and felt his belly tighten. These girls are getting far too mature these days, he mused. Then he remembered the illicit joint and the backtalk and impertinence… these things could not be tolerated.

The next six began back at the top and descended until a dozen close welts patterned Amanda’s bottom. By then her breath was like sandpaper on dry wood and she was sniffing back tears. Each stroke had extracted quite a lot of shouting and unladylike words.

Grayson waited.

Amanda knew he wasn’t done, but her resolve and forbearance was at an end. Beginning with a small shuddering of her shoulders she began to cry until true tears cascaded down her face.

The next six strokes could not help but crossing a few of the previous burning lines and a half dozen after that, strokes were falling on strokes.

Amanda announced her appreciation banshee style and Grayson wished he had some earplugs.

“This is not the behaviour I expect from one of our girls,” he said disapprovingly.

“No Sir,” Amanda sobbed, “I’m sorry Sir.”

“Are you, are you truly?” Grayson asked with real interest, “Then you admit that you deserve this?”

“Yes Sir,” she agreed heartedly into the chair seat.

“You promise never to use drugs again?” he pressed her.

“Oh no Sir, I promise.” Amanda had never been so definite.

“Six more and you’re done then,” the headmaster said breezily.

Amanda sucked air and braced herself.

Six was as 60 on her martyred bottom and she was unrestrained in her response. There being more flesh to work on, Grayson focussed these last on her sitting curves, which made for pain and consequence but was less likely to prolong the bruising.

“Sir, oh Sir,” Amanda steeled herself as she rode it.

“That’s enough,” the headmaster said with a flourish.

A picture of woe; Amanda staggered to a stoop and let the tears fall like rain.

“A lesson learned I hope,” Grayson said brusquely.

“Yes Sir,” Amanda sniffed and offered him her hand.

He shook it warmly and turned his back while she dressed.

“Bailey you say…?” Grayson mused and compared Amanda’s name with his roll.

Puzzled he flipped over a few pages until he found the records form three years previously.

“Amanda Callard,” he gasped, “How could I… but…?”

Amanda wiped her eyes and looked at him sheepishly.

“I got into a couple of scrapes in college,” she admitted shyly, “Drugs mostly. I thought I could use a straightener and you were always so kind…”

“But this is…” Grayson was lost for words for a moment.

Amanda smiled and shrugged. “Thank you Sir.”

“Any time Miss Callard,” the headmaster chuckled.

“Do you mean that Sir?” Amanda asked wistfully.

Grayson picked up the cane again and braced into an arch.

“Hmmm, pull a stunt like this again and you’ll regret it,” he said with sharp affection.

“I regret it already Sir, I think I am supposed to,” Amanda replied with a wink.

“Good bye Miss Callard,” Grayson said tersely and laughed.

“Au revoir, Sir,” Amanda winked again and with slow careful steps eased herself out of the door.

8 Responses to “A Visit to the Head”

  1. You write the story as if you were present on the day, brilliantly placed in the heads office of the day where-ever it took place in the globe.I have shared such a story with many I likewise was used to six of the best in those good/bad old days. six of the best 10 times is quite much at the one time for any tender bottom cheeks. even now when it is enacted in consensual spanking/caning’s Our bottoms don’t get tougher with age. I know I have been there

  2. 3 Becky

    Like the individual here whenever my behaviour has merited confinement to school uniform it makes me feel meek and immature even before application of further sanctions. Having to bend over and touch your toes whilst your school cardigan and dress are lifted your knickers lowered and the cane strokes applied is always a severe lesson. The obligatory corner time with hands on head and striated behind on display only add to the lesson and regret. Having to do detention and write lines on one’s misbehaviour is also a very effective punishment.

  3. 5 George

    No house should miss a cane for brats of any age… As Becky writes, uniform, or imho lack of clothes, together with corner time are helpful.

  4. 6 Peter

    Thank you for a marvellous story. I once asked the Senior Mistress to cane me in my last week. She told me she only caned naughty boys so I swore at her. Result was six of her very best on my bum. Happy days!

    • 7 DJ

      Must have been a long time ago 🙂

      • 8 Peter

        It certainly was. In 1968 to be exact. It was an enjoyable last school caning at the hands of a beautiful lady so well worth it.

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