Calling Bluffs
When Sasha Penrose strides into St. Winifred’s School to protest her younger sister’s punishment, she expects her family name to open doors — or at the very least, close disciplinary files. But Headmistress Fairholme is not so easily swayed. What begins as a bold bluff quickly turns into a reckoning, and Sasha soon finds herself learning a most personal lesson in humility — delivered with quiet authority and a decidedly traditional touch. Calling Bluffs is a tale of overconfidence, old-school discipline, and the uncomfortable discovery that some lessons must be learned the hard way.
Chapter 1: Enter Miss Penrose
For many years, St Winifred’s School for Young Ladies used its sandstone grandeur as a barrier to the whims of modern society. The entrance hall, with its soaring vaulted ceiling, the stately ticking of a longcase clock, and a grand portrait of Queen Mary in all her regal finery, seemed to whisper that time itself had taken a polite sabbatical.
If these walls could talk, they’d do so in impeccable elocution — and not without a touch of warning. One thought of the generations of young ladies who had walked these halls with measured steps and demure demeanour. The conversations, and the fun. The pranks played, and the consequences felt.
And into this hallowed sanctuary in aviator sunglasses, gold ballet flats, and a blazer far more Milan than matronly, was a visitor who might as well have been walking into a cocktail bar for all she cared.
Sasha Penrose swept into the hallway and paused just long enough to remove her sunglasses and make a show of pretending to be impressed.
“Charming,” she said aloud — though her smirk suggested she meant quite the opposite.
The receptionist — who looked like she may have been carved from the same sandstone as the school itself — gave her a long, appraising stare before gesturing toward a wooden bench with a discreet sign: “Guests: Please Wait to be Announced.”
Sasha remained standing. Waiting was not a skill she’d ever needed to cultivate.
She was twenty-one, the daughter of a prominent QC and the goddaughter of Lady Aurelia Hastings — who, as she enjoyed reminding people, sat on the governing board of three prep schools, and one opera trust.
The silence dragged for just long enough to feel intentional. Then the receptionist, without lifting her gaze from her typewriter, murmured: “Miss Fairholme will see you now.”
Sasha offered a perfunctory smile and strode off down the corridor.
It was said that merely mentioning Miss Fairholme’s study could reduce a misbehaving sixth-former to tears. The very air felt thick with the weight of tradition and the ghosts of past transgressions. At the centre stood a large writing desk, meticulously ordered. And behind it, in an upright wooden chair, sat the headmistress herself.
Tall, spare, and entirely composed, Miss Fairholme wore a grey skirt-suit with a high collar and a dark academic gown draped over her shoulders. She was a woman — so it was said — who was sharp of intellect and even sharper of tongue. On the desk, not too far from her left hand, rested a slender crook-handled cane.
Sasha hesitated for the briefest moment. Then, straightened her posture and strode in, establishing a front of composure and long-limbed confidence.
“Miss Fairholme, I presume. I’m Sasha Penrose. I expect you're already aware of the situation with my sister.”
The headmistress gave a small, deliberate nod, her gaze steady and unreadable.
“I see we are skipping the pleasantries, Miss Penrose. And yes, I'm aware that your sister received three days’ after-school detention for defacing school property. A punishment which, I understand, she accepted without protest.”
Sasha let out a dry laugh.
“Yes, well, that’s Imogen for you. But I’m not here to discuss her easy-going attitude. I’m here because the whole thing is absurd. She drew a small doodle on the back of a Latin textbook. Hardly treason.”
Miss Fairholme blinked once.
“It was a caricature of me. It was disrespectful and rude. These are not,” she gave Sasha a pointed look, “qualities that are becoming for young ladies.”
Sasha took a deep breath, trying to muster the confidence she had rehearsed. It wasn't proving easy.
She was used to gliding through life with only the lightest of resistance — the world tended to defer, or at least look the other way. But Miss Fairholme’s gaze looked as if it could pierce any pretence. Sasha was beginning to feel like a naughty schoolgirl.
“Miss Fairholme, I understand your position, but I'm sure there must be a better way to resolve this. My godmother, Lady Hastings, is on the board of governors, and she was most displeased to hear of what she considered a rather excessive punishment.”
There was a long pause. Miss Fairholme did not lean forward. She did not frown. Instead, she simply said:
“We could ask her, I suppose — though I rather suspect she’d be far more disappointed to learn her goddaughter came here unannounced to dispute a perfectly reasonable punishment.”
Sasha faltered. She had already played her trump card, and was getting nowhere.
“I’m not demanding, I’m just... saying. It’s not a great look. Bad for the reputation. Not very... progressive.”
Miss Fairholme allowed herself a faint smile. It was not a warm smile, but it was the smile of a woman who saw her opponent was beginning to crumble.
“And you believe threatening reputational damage will, what? Encourage me to apologise?”
Sasha blinked. “That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you meant.”
Sasha felt a shiver down her spine. This isn't how she had planned the interview at all. Lady Hastings was a pillar of the community and her influence could open doors. For an awful moment she visualised the consequences of falling out of favour with her godmother.
“But... but... err, Miss Fairholme, please don't think I'm trying to circumvent the system, I only meant that—”
“Miss Penrose— that is exactly what you are trying to do.”
“Well, I suppose I did hope you might consider a slightly different solution. I know Imogen can be impulsive, but she honestly didn’t mean any harm. I’m sure she’ll learn from the experience. Anyway, I guess I should probably be going. Thank you for your time.”
“Not so fast. We still have more to discuss. I can assure you, Lady Hastings would find this conversation rather enlightening. You say your sister might learn from the experience, and personally I believe she will. But what about you Miss Penrose? I think perhaps it's you who needs to learn something from experience?”
She moved to the cupboard beside her desk and opened it. Inside, a row of items hung in strict order. Among them — to Sasha’s immediate dismay — were a leather-soled slipper with a well-worn heel, a flat-backed hairbrush of polished cherrywood, and a stout wooden paddle that looked distinctly unambiguous.
“Wait— what in the world are you doing?”
“I am merely considering some options for advancing your... education,” said Miss Fairholme. “You arrived to complain about your sister's punishment. You have, in doing so, implied that our disciplinary measures are inappropriate. But, how can you make that judgement without first-hand knowledge.”
“You’re joking!”
“This is not a topic I joke about, Miss Penrose. Evidently we cannot issue you with detentions, but I have many brisker methods at my disposal. Whether that means bending over for the plimsoll, or the paddle, or whether we choose a less formal implement — such as the hairbrush. There's lots to think about. Like, for instance, whether your impertinence and disrespect means the cane might be justified.”
The headmistress closed the cupboard door.
“But you are, of course, entirely free to leave. However, I should warn you — if that's what you decide, then I may be obliged to take further steps. A formal letter to your parents perhaps? And I would be more than happy to seek Lady Hastings' advice to see what she really thinks of your attitude.”
Sasha was momentarily lost for words.
“I don’t believe this,” she muttered.
“Really? In that case I shall give you 10 minutes to reflect.”
Miss Fairholme returned to her desk. “When you return with your decision we shall decide whether to invite Lady Hastings to continue this discussion with us, or, her eyes narrowed, “whether we try an alternative approach.”
Sasha turned on her heel and stormed out — but not before casting a glance back at the polished desk and the upright, unwavering woman behind it. A woman, she now realised with a slight chill, who had never once raised her voice — but who had somehow turned the entire conversation against her.
And worse still — the decision now belonged entirely to her.
Chapter 2: A Matter of Decorum
The knock on Miss Fairholme’s door was a soft, hesitant rap — a far cry from Sasha’s earlier bravado. That confidence had evaporated, leaving behind only a deep sense of unease. Now, she stood in the corridor outside the study, a flicker of doubt in her expression, her fingers fidgeting at her sides.
“Enter,” came the voice, cool and commanding.
Sasha took a deep breath, steeling herself for what lay ahead.
Miss Fairholme remained seated at her desk, the crook-handled cane still within arm’s reach — though, for the moment, untouched. She looked up with the expression of someone who had been marking essays and found them wanting.
“Well?” Miss Fairholme asked, her voice low and measured. “Have you come to retract your threat and offer the apology you owe me?”
Sasha hesitated. She wanted to flee, to escape the weight of Miss Fairholme's gaze, but her feet felt rooted to the spot. After what felt like an eternity, she managed a small, reluctant nod.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I shouldn’t have interfered.”
Miss Fairholme's eyes narrowed as she studied Sasha, her expression inscrutable. Sasha squirmed, her palms feeling sweaty as she met the headmistress's stare. The thought of feeling like a schoolgirl flicked through her mind once more.
“You may be sorry,” she said, “but I am not yet convinced you are improved.”
Sasha found the headmistress's demeanour unreadable, but the signs were not positive.
“In your sister’s case, the punishment was formal. Detention, loss of privileges. In yours, I believe something far more immediate is required.”
Sasha stiffened. Her eyes darted, once again, to the cane.
Miss Fairholme noticed and gave a wry smile.
“I can see what you're thinking, but no,” she said mildly. “Not the cane. I suspect you may be conflating discipline and punishment. You, young lady, are someone who has not yet learned the difference. Our lesson today will begin with... humility.”
She rose from her chair.
“I have decided,” she said, crossing to another chair beside the tall bay windows, “that your correction today will follow a more traditional course. You may find it undignified. You may find it embarrassing. That would not, I confess, be entirely unintentional.”
Sasha stared. “I don't think I understand what you mean, Miss Fairholme?”
“In that case, let me spell it out for you.”
Miss Fairholme seated herself, straight-backed and composed, her feet flat and secure on the burnished oak floor of her study.
“I intend to give you a thorough spanking Miss Penrose.”
Sasha coloured deeply. “But that’s completely outrageous. I'm twenty-one years old.”
“In that case you should be capable of understanding why that is an appropriate consequence for childish posturing and ill-considered threats. Your punishment will be firm. You will take it with grace. And when it is over, we shall see whether your perspective has improved.”
Miss Fairholme waited, hands folded in her lap. She did not press. She didn’t need to.
“You are, of course, free to refuse.”
There was a pause, but it was not a long one.
“…No,” said Sasha quietly. “I don't refuse.”
“Very well,” said Miss Fairholme. “Remove your blazer and fold it neatly on the chair. Then come here. Stand to my right. And when I tell you, you will place yourself over my lap. Hands and toes on the floor, if you please.”
Sasha swallowed, feeling her fingers tremble slightly as she slipped off her blazer and laid it with exaggerated care across the chair. Then she walked forward and came to a halt at Miss Fairholme’s side.
The headmistress looked straight ahead, unflinching.
Sasha stood, her mind a whirlwind of panic. Think, Sasha, think. There has to be a way out of this. I can't just give in. But what choice do I have?
And then, slowly — with a grace more instinctive than deliberate — she bent forward and lowered herself over the lap of the woman who had, with quiet authority, dismantled her sense of control entirely.
The moment held, sharp and strangely silent, as Sasha settled into place, her palms flat to the floorboards, her heels lifted. In the background, the study clock ticked.
From her undignified position — hair tumbling forward, arms stretched — Sasha found herself staring at the floor beneath Miss Fairholme’s wooden chair. In a moment that felt almost like a dream, she caught sight of her own feet, absurdly far behind her. This can’t be happening. Why on earth did I let it get this far?
Miss Fairholme adjusted the line of her gown and placed her right hand firmly on Sasha’s back. Not to restrain, but to signal that she was now, fully and formally, in her charge.
“Well then,” she said softly. “Let us begin.”
Chapter 3: A Certain Perspective
Sasha had never been in such an undignified position in all her life.
Sprawled over Miss Fairholme’s lap, arms stretched, hair falling in a loose curtain that brushed the polished floorboards, she could feel the headmistress’s hand resting firmly between her shoulder blades — undeniably in control. It wasn’t restraint, exactly, but it was a clear message: she would remain where she was until told otherwise.
Miss Fairholme adjusted her posture with a precise, measured breath.
If Sasha maintained any lingering hopes for a reprieve, they evaporated when she felt the Headmistress's right hand come lightly to rest upon her bottom. I can't believe she's actually going to go through with this.
“Discipline,” Miss Fairholme announced, her voice calm and unhurried, “is not merely punishment. It is a mindset. An acceptance of expectations and responsibility. A willingness to receive correction and emerge improved. Do you understand?”
“Sort of,” Sasha muttered into the floor.
There was a pause — short, but tense. Then the first spank landed with a crisp smack.
Sasha jumped, more in shock than pain.
“Hey! That actually stung. Not exactly the Geneva Convention, is it?”
“It was meant to sting,” Miss Fairholme sighed. “And, Miss Penrose, I expected better from you than yet more impertinence.”
“I’m just saying—”
“You are not here to say. You are here to learn.”
To reinforce her words, Miss Fairholme began to deliver a series of purposeful swats from her well practised right palm. The spanks were firm and deliberate, her singular goal to inspire self-improvement.
“You’re keeping quiet now, Miss Penrose. May I take that as a hopeful sign?”
“Well—yes—but—”
Another smack. Then another. The rhythm was brisk but not rushed, the weight of each swat measured and unerring. The sound echoed against the high plaster ceiling, and with each crisp connection, Sasha’s thoughts began to untangle themselves from indignation and drift, slowly, toward understanding.
The spanking was not severe, but it was unmistakably serious.
A tingling heat had begun to bloom, and Sasha found it increasingly hard to keep still. As she wriggled, Miss Fairholme's next spank caught her painfully on the top of her thigh. She twisted and kicked her leg, coming rather close to catching Miss Fairholme's arm.
“Yeow! No—please Miss Fairholme!”
Sasha tensed, sensing a reprimand, but the voice that replied was utterly calm.
“Miss Penrose, you will not wriggle. You will not kick your legs, or flinch, or mutter back-chat. Is that clear? You have put yourself in this position, and now you will stay in it.”
“I'm very sorry, Miss Fairholme,” Sasha heard herself saying. She was not a young lady accustomed to apologising and the automatic spontaneity took her slightly off guard.
“Very good. I sense that perhaps you are beginning to learn. Your correction is almost complete, and I expect you to accept the rest of the lesson with quiet dignity.”
Sasha swallowed, feeling her fingers curling against the floor.
“Yes, Miss Fairholme.”
Miss Fairholme’s hand did not falter — but as the spanking grew firmer, Sasha found herself yielding to the headmistress’s authority without question.
It wasn't easy, but she kept her hands and feet in contact with the floor. Miss Fairholme had planted a seed and, slowly, the dawning sense of taking responsibility for her actions was growing within her.
The room was far from silent, yet a deeper stillness had settled — not just in the air, but within her. It was a silence that transcended the physical and seeped into her emotions. Sasha took a deep breath, feeling the weight of Miss Fairholme's authority settle within her. She was quiet now, not just in body, but in spirit.
The initial sting of the headmistress's punishment was morphing into something more complex: a quiet regret, yes, but also an unexpected sense of relief and a glimmer of understanding. It was as if the spanking had peeled away a layer of her old self, revealing a stronger, more resilient core.
When the final swat landed, she exhaled.
Miss Fairholme lifted her hand from Sasha’s back, giving her a clear line of exit.
“Now, Miss Penrose. You may stand.”
Sasha brushed the hair from her face and adjusted her clothes with a small wince, every movement a vivid reminder of what had just passed. Though her pride felt more bruised than her bottom, the sting was real enough to ensure that her movements were more measured now.
She fully expected to be dismissed. Her mind was already rehearsing what she might say to her godmother, to her parents — how she could possibly explain this absurd afternoon appointment in a way that didn’t make her sound like a complete fool.
But Miss Fairholme had other ideas.
“You will not be leaving just yet,” she said briskly, returning to her desk. “I have not yet decided whether to report this incident to Lady Hastings.”
“But... I thought — I took the punishment!”
“You did,” Miss Fairholme replied evenly, selecting a small sheaf of lined paper from her drawer. “And now you will take some time to reflect. Please be seated.”
Sasha lowered herself onto the chair with exaggerated caution. Her expression said everything.
“Your imposition,” said Miss Fairholme, setting down a pen beside the paper, “is to write the following line, one hundred times, in neat, legible handwriting: I must learn that dignity is not inherited, but earned.”
Sasha opened her mouth, then closed it again. Miss Fairholme gave her a single, pointed look — and then, without another word, turned and exited the room. The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Sasha sat alone, the sting in her bottom sharp enough to make itself known with every fidget. She didn't want to admit it — but part of her felt lighter, like something had shifted.
She picked up the pen and dipped her head to write the first line.
I must learn that dignity is not inherited, but earned.
She sighed.
Of all the days to wear silk trousers...
Chapter Four: Written in Reflection
The study clock continued to tick softly — a calm, measured sound at odds with the storm of thoughts behind Sasha Hastings’ composed expression.
She sat upright at Miss Fairholme’s antique writing desk, legs crossed at the ankles, a cream sheet of college paper before her and the stem of a fountain pen balanced delicately in her fingers.
Her behind still throbbed with the memory of what she could now, with some perspective, admit had been a well-earned spanking across Miss Fairholme's uncompromising lap. At least it had not been a caning, but still — stinging enough to make her silk trousers feel like a strategic miscalculation.
The handwriting didn’t come naturally to Sasha. The desk chair was high-backed and unyielding, and her injured pride protested just as much as her bottom. But as line after line began to fill the page, something in her breathing slowed.
There was something unexpectedly meditative in the repetition — something that turned a petty task into something more clarifying.
On line twenty-two, she caught herself remembering how smug she’d sounded when she’d mentioned her godmother. By line thirty-five, the memory of Miss Fairholme’s raised eyebrow was almost as painful as the repeated impact of her hand. By line seventy, her expression had softened entirely.
When she reached the end, she exhaled. The last sentence sat neatly aligned with the margin. She capped the pen.
Still alone, she sat almost to attention, hands resting in her lap.
Miss Fairholme returned a few moments later, her gown trailing behind her like the judgemental tail of a magistrate’s robe.
“Finished?”
“Yes, Miss Fairholme.”
“Then, let me see.”
Sasha stood and passed over the sheets without ceremony. The headmistress examined it with a level gaze, reading not just the handwriting, but the posture, the tone, the quiet contrition beneath Sasha’s otherwise upright stance.
Miss Fairholme gave a single nod. “Very well.”
She returned the paper to the desk and then, quite unexpectedly, offered a small, approving smile. Sasha noticed that her expression had softened slightly, her voice losing some of its usual edge.
“I shall not speak to Lady Hastings today, Miss Penrose. You may think me harsh and old-fashioned, you may believe the rules are archaic, but I trust that you have gained some insight today.”
Sasha paused, the weight of the headmistress's words settling over her. She felt a genuine shift within herself, a new understanding that transcended mere words. With a sincerity that surprised even her, she replied:
“I have. Thank you, Miss Fairholme.”
She left the room quietly, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that echoed through the corridor. Despite her discomfort, she resisted the urge to rub her bottom until she was well beyond the door and out of the eye-line of the school secretary.
She walked down the familiar school drive, the light crunch of gravel a stark contrast to the turmoil within her. The air was crisp and the late afternoon sun cast long shadows. Perhaps there was some symbolism there, she mused.
Her behind carried a stinging reminder of Miss Fairholme's actions, but there was a new lightness to her step, and a quiet resolve that was absent before. She had been chastised, humbled, even humiliated — but also forced to confront the limits of her own arrogance. In doing so, she’d glimpsed something quieter and more honest beneath it all.
I'm not the same person I was this morning. I'll take this lesson with me as a reminder of the power of humility, and the value of true discipline.
As the school faded into the distance, Sasha finally felt a sense of closure. Being spanked at her age was humiliating, but she had come to accept the necessity. With quiet determination, she stepped forward, resolving never to underestimate a woman in tweed again.
Sasha was a little wiser, a little warmer... and her silk trouser seat was forever altered.
Case Study No. 17 from the archives of the St. Winifred’s Foundation for the Moral Improvement of Young Women (Governing Board Use Only).