Custodian of the Cane
In a quiet corner of a provincial museum, Evelyn discovers a meticulously preserved 1950s classroom. Desks stand aligned, rules are unbending, and a crook-handled cane rests on the teacher’s desk. When the enigmatic Miss Hartley offers her a hands-on lesson in history, Evelyn must decide how far she’s willing to surrender to her deepest longings. Custodian of the Cane is a tale combining discipline, ritual... and desire.
from 📚 The Seat of Learning
Act 1 – Echoes of Discipline
The Living Museum of Yesteryear was a lovingly crafted tapestry, its exhibits intricately woven to give visitors a taste of another era. Here, they didn’t just remember the past. They brought it to life, in rooms, and scenes, and in memories. The scent of dusty artefacts lingered, as if the very walls preserved fragments of history.
Evelyn wandered, her tummy fluttering with a mix of curiosity and something closer to a thrill of anticipation. In a recreated coal miner’s cottage, a bathtub stood before an open fire. In the butcher’s shop, an apple-cheeked actor stood behind the counter. These scenes prompted smiles, but then she turned a corner and stopped.
Before her stood a doorway that seemed to pulse with an enchanting energy. The sign read “1950s Classroom”, and Evelyn felt herself drawn closer. The sight triggered a cascade of suppressed desires, and a guilty excitement coursed through her veins.
Inside stood rows of desks, their surfaces scarred with the initials of long-forgotten pupils. Across the far wall, a blackboard stretched, pale ghosts of old writing lingering upon its surface. On the teacher’s desk, a crook-handled school cane lay waiting with unspoken menace.
At the sight of it, Evelyn froze. Something stirred within her as she stood in the hushed and meticulously recreated classroom. Her thighs tensed, and she forced herself to look away from the formidable implement.
Instead, the figure at the front of the room drew her attention. A young woman dressed in a prim tailored skirt suit, her hair swept into a severe bun. Not a classical beauty, but bearing a striking prettiness, partly concealed by her stiff historical costume. She stood with authority, as if she might be commanding a room of thirty girls, not simply presiding over a quiet diorama.
“Keep your voice down when you are in the classroom,” Miss Hartley said, in a tone that commanded obedience. “And raise your hand if you have a question.” Her eyes bored into Evelyn, as if daring her to disobey.
The strict instruction sent a shiver down Evelyn’s spine, leaving her feeling strangely exposed. But the woman’s expression mellowed, her gaze lingering, as if sensing the visitor’s unease.
“Please don’t take me too seriously,” she said with a smile. “It’s part of the act. If you have questions, or if there’s anything I can do for you, I’d love to help.” Her tone seemed to convey a sensual promise.
Evelyn shifted, feeling as though she was waiting for a summons to the front of the room. Waiting? Or, perhaps she was hoping.
“I suppose I was wondering,” Evelyn ventured, her voice timid, “do you ever... stay in character? When you’re not busy with your normal museum work, I mean.”
Her cheeks flushed as she met Miss Hartley’s gaze, feeling like she was asking something intimate.
“Maybe,” the woman teased with a hint of intrigue. “It would depend upon who was asking, of course. Perhaps there’s something about this austere schoolroom atmosphere that speaks to certain people, stirring emotions that are normally hidden just beneath the surface.”
Evelyn’s gaze remained fixed on Miss Hartley’s, her mind processing the subtle implications. “Right. Yes. I think...” She hesitated, unsure of her own thoughts. “I think I might be one of those people. It’s a type of setting that I’ve always found strangely captivating.”
Her admission sounded like a confession. From the front of the schoolroom, the woman watched with unspoken recognition. Evelyn stiffened, her mind racing. Can she sense what I’m thinking? Does she know there’s something I’m longing for, but that I’d never dare to ask for out loud?
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“We close at four,” Miss Hartley told her, “but I’m always around for a while after that.” Her gaze continued to hold Evelyn’s with a seductive insistence. “Perhaps there’s something in particular that you’re curious about? Something you’d be more comfortable discussing in private?”
Evelyn’s cheeks flushed. She nodded, feeling both grateful and apprehensive.
She tried to tell herself she would continue exploring the other exhibits. But already, the rest of the museum was fading into a blur. As she walked away, she sensed Miss Hartley’s eyes following her, adding an extra frisson to her already heightened emotions.
Act 2 – Crossing the Threshold
By the time she returned at four, the museum was hushed, its lights dimmed in the side galleries. Evelyn’s palms felt moist. It seemed unthinkable that she’d come back, and yet, here she was, at the threshold of the schoolroom. She knew it wasn’t real, and yet, somehow it was more real than she had ever dared to hope.
Miss Hartley was beside the teacher’s desk, tidying a stack of visitor pamphlets. She glanced up, her mouth twitching with a flicker of amusement, and perhaps something else. Something that set Evelyn’s pulse racing.
“I hoped you’d be back,” Miss Hartley said.
Evelyn trembled as she met Miss Hartley’s gaze, then glanced away. “I’m not sure why I’m here,” she said.
Miss Hartley’s smile was a subtle, enigmatic curve of her lips. “Deep down, maybe you are sure?” she suggested. “Perhaps you’ve been searching for something you can’t quite name, but that you’ve always wanted to acknowledge?”
The pause that followed stretched long enough that Evelyn’s heart quickened, the air between them electric.
“It’s not that I want… anything strange,” Evelyn blurted, her cheeks flushing. “I just... I’ve always wondered what it would be like. To experience a moment of old-fashioned discipline.”
Miss Hartley’s gaze held steady. “You understand, this isn’t fantasy. I can’t offer play-acting. But I can offer you authenticity. A taste of how it was, if that’s what you want.”
Evelyn swallowed, considering the word: authenticity. That really was what she wanted, wasn’t it?
Miss Hartley reached for a key-ring on her belt. “If you’d like, we have a props room where we keep old uniforms for educational tours. You’d be welcome to try one, and then you can decide.”
Evelyn felt her breath quicken, a flutter of anticipation dancing through her body. Her mind filled with vivid, half-formed images. The scratch of wool against skin, the stiffness of a collar, the weight of a time when rules were clear and consequences were certain.
This is really happening, she realised, a little light-headed. She was about to step into a re-enactment, not a fantasy. Miss Hartley’s eyes flicked over her, assessing, but without judgement.
“Come with me,” she said, her voice a blend of command and invitation.
Evelyn hesitated. For years, these thoughts had felt like harmless curiosity. Her tantalising fantasies of discipline were theoretical rather than verified through experiment. She knew it wasn’t too late to change her mind, but she heard a quiet, inner-voice urging her forward. If not now, then when?
She took a deep breath and followed. When the door of the prop room clicked shut behind them, she caught the faint scent of old wool and laundry starch. Her skin prickled. She decided then, as she stood with Miss Hartley, she would place herself entirely in this woman’s hands.
Act 3 – The Weight of Cloth
The prop room was cool and musty, its walls lined with racks of preserved garments, each tagged and folded with curatorial precision. Evelyn waited as Miss Hartley unlocked a tall wardrobe and drew out the pieces of a uniform. A grey woollen pinafore dress, a crisp white blouse with a stiff collar, and a striped school tie. Then, from a lower shelf, a pair of bottle-green gym knickers, black stockings, and polished leather shoes.
“These were standard issue,” Miss Hartley explained. “Girls wore these every day. It was part of the discipline, and in those days they took the formality of uniforms very seriously.”
Evelyn’s hands trembled as she accepted the bundle. There was a full-length mirror in the corner, and Miss Hartley partly turned away, but her presence was a palpable weight. She was not exactly watching, but Evelyn knew she’d be aware of every movement.
Piece by piece, Evelyn undressed. Casting off each layer of her modern clothing was like taking another step back through time. As she removed her jeans and sweater, she glimpsed herself in the dusty mirror. Her delicate lace bra and panties felt out of place here, but their modernity was about to be replaced by the rigour of formality.
With a shiver, Evelyn reached back and unclasped her bra. The straps slipped from her shoulders, and her fingers toyed with the waistband of her briefs before she slid them down. The cool air kissed the curves of her hips and bottom, and she felt exposed in a way that was far deeper than mere nudity.
As she caught her reflection, her bare skin tingled with goosebumps. She found it difficult to express why thoughts of archaic discipline had resonated with her, forming and developing through the years. She remembered the novels and films she had sought out, trying to make her dreams feel closer.
In that instant of exposed reflection, standing naked before the mirror, she saw herself not as Evelyn, a twenty-first-century woman, but as a visitor to another era. It didn’t feel like play or experimentation. It was a surrender to something older, and more exacting.
Feeling as though she were undertaking a full, personal reset, the meaning of the uniform became elevated beyond mere costume. First came the thick cotton gym knickers, strange and snug as she eased them over her hips. She felt a quiet thrill at their firmness. Unlike her flimsy modern lingerie, they were designed to confine, rather than reveal.
Then she felt the scratch of woollen stockings and the starched blouse, stiff against her skin, buttoned to the neck. Each item she put on seemed to immerse her deeper into the role. The grey pinafore dress came next, settling over her shoulders, its weight drawing her deeper into a history she had only ever imagined.
Tying the knot of the school tie felt unfamiliar to her fingers after years of casual fashion. Beside her on the floor, the polished black shoes completed the ensemble.
She paused for a final reflection in the mirror. It was like looking into the dreams she’d carried for years. Something she’d never dared put into words. A girl out of her own time. A character she’d only ever imagined in stories or old films was standing there in the mirror, looking back at her.
Miss Hartley nodded, her eyes appraising. “You look so pretty, Evelyn. I think you’ve found your era, and you carry yourself with such natural poise.”
Evelyn sensed her cheeks blushing. The words should have been reassuring, but they also reminded her of the ritual they were about to perform.
Act 4 – Six of the Best
Together, they crossed back through the darkened gallery to the classroom. The fading afternoon light fell in solemn rays across the rows of wooden desks. Evelyn’s shoes tapped across the floorboards as Miss Hartley gestured for her to sit.
“Before we begin,” Miss Hartley said, folding her hands on the teacher’s desk, “you should understand exactly what would have happened in a situation like this.”
Evelyn sat stiffly at her front-row desk, feeling the press of the pinafore at her shoulders, the faint squeeze of the waistband at her middle. She couldn’t shake the feeling of history consuming her.
Miss Hartley’s explanation continued. “A girl receiving six of the best would be called to the front. She would be told precisely why, and would have a moment to compose herself, but no opportunity to delay. She would see the cane being taken from its place, intensifying her anxiety. The strokes would be severe and counted aloud. When a caning was administered, there was no leniency. Afterwards, she would return to her seat, expected to sit quietly, reflect, and continue with her lessons as if nothing had happened.”
Evelyn swallowed, her mouth dry and her mind a churn of nerves and anticipation. There was a sense of apprehension as the sharp edge of reality collided with her long-imagined curiosity. She tried to imagine the sting. How would it feel, and would she be able to bear it?
She wondered whether she was crazy to have come back. But then, Miss Hartley rose, smoothing the skirt of her navy suit, and her voice, quiet and sure, drew Evelyn forward.
“Come, Evelyn,” Miss Hartley said. “It’s time.”
The voice cut through her nerves, and it sparked something she hadn’t known she longed for. To be called as the girl she might have been, in another life, in another time. Her body moved before her mind fully registered the summons.
Her legs were uncertain, and her pulse raced. She kept her eyes lowered as she walked, aware of the creak of the old floorboards and the unfamiliar tug of the uniform.
Miss Hartley paused, the cane resting against her palm. Her eyes searched Evelyn’s face. Her question was unspoken. Just a nurturing lift of one brow, a slight inclination of her head, but the meaning was unmistakable. Evelyn drew a slow breath and gave a nod, paired with a nervous smile. It was all the assurance Miss Hartley needed. She straightened, calm once again.
To Evelyn, she was the embodiment of alluring authority. Cool, unshaken, practised. I can trust her, Evelyn told herself, clinging to the thought like a lifeline.
She bent forward as instructed, her forearms pressed flat against the teacher’s desk, the starch of the blouse scratching against her skin. She shut her eyes, feeling the air shift behind her as Miss Hartley took her place.
Evelyn felt suspended, as though history were hugging her tight in its invisible arms. She was no longer quite herself, and yet had never felt more so. Who will I be when I stand up again? Will the experience change me?
And then came the moment when she felt her skirt lifted, confident fingers folding and tucking it back. A cold waft of air passed over the modest gym knickers, and a surge of fear prickled along her spine. It was not only fear of the physical pain, but a deeper, profound fear of what this meant, and of how exposed she was. She was no longer a visitor to a museum. She had become a participant in a ritual that spanned decades.
The first stroke landed with a sharp thwack, igniting a piercing streak of fire across her rear. Evelyn gasped, her eyes flying open. The intensity exceeded anything that she’d ever imagined. It was a stark reminder of a time when corporal punishment was not merely a concept, but a tangible, physical reality.
“That’s one,” Miss Hartley announced in a level voice.
The punishment continued with meticulous precision, a ritual as old as the room itself. Evelyn’s fingers gripped the edge of the desk as the next stroke followed.
It whistled through the air, landing with another fearsome thwack. Again, there came the searing explosion of agony that bloomed and transformed into a slower, lingering throb. This stroke was aimed lower, slightly angled, and the acute pain seemed even sharper. It was as if the whippy rattan cane were seeking the most tender places to impart its harsh message.
“That was two, and keep still,” Miss Hartley chided, sensing the merest flinch. Her voice carried a firmness that cut straight through Evelyn’s instinct to squirm away from the fiery strokes.
The third one landed with the same ripping crack of impact, and Evelyn yelped, a sound that was close to a tearful cry. There was no escape from the blazing sensation. It was unforgiving, commanding her full attention. They were only halfway, and she already knew this was a pain that she’d never forget.
“Three, Evelyn.”
She managed to hold back a sob, but her composure was starting to slip. Was she still Evelyn? Or some forgotten girl of the 1950s, her name written in a punishment book, long since consigned to dust.
The fourth whippy impact cut across the exact centre of her bottom, reinvigorating old pain with a renewed, even sharper focus.
“And that was number four.” Miss Hartley announced.
Evelyn’s mouth hung open in a silent grimace of disbelief at the sting that overwhelmed her bottom.
The wool of the stockings itched against her calves, the tops of her thighs pressing forward against the desk. She clenched her jaw, struggling, her fingertips curling as they squeezed the edge of the antique desk.
Another stunning thwack echoed around the schoolroom as the fifth stroke cut, its raw bite triggering a quiver that shot to her knees and twitched up her thighs. The red-hot sting felt as though it burned through the fabric of her modest underwear, almost as if it wasn’t there.
“Five, one more to go, Evelyn. And remember, remain in position once your punishment is over. Do not move, or stand, until I instruct you to do so.”
No words came to Evelyn as she braced for the final stroke. She knew what was coming and could think of nothing but the heat, and the smarting, and the dread sense of thorough chastisement. Tears tickled the corners of her eyes, her cheeks feeling warm and moist.
After an agonised few seconds of suspense, the pliant rattan struck with cruel precision, deep across the lower curve of her throbbing behind. Evelyn cried out, unable to hold back any longer.
Miss Hartley had promised authentic discipline, and she had delivered with exquisite, historical resolve.
“Six,” she announced, stepping back.
Then came silence. The cane hovered somewhere unseen, the atmosphere heavy with aftershock.
Evelyn remained bent, forehead lowered, her breath misting the polished surface of the desk. For an instant, she didn’t know if she could rise, or if she wanted to. But at last, Miss Hartley’s voice called to her.
“You may stand.”
Evelyn rose slowly, blinking back the tears, feeling shaky but determined. By pure instinct, she said, “Thank you, Miss Hartley.”
The words slipped out before she knew it, a reflex born from something deeper than manners. It was gratitude for being seen, and for being given what she had so long dreamt about. Miss Hartley gave a nod, her eyes gentle, her hands calmly setting the cane back across the front of the desk, where it lay motionless and silent once again.
Miss Hartley’s hand became tender, moving to Evelyn’s cheek. Her thumb brushed away a stray tear.
“You did well,” Miss Hartley reassured her. “Return to your seat now and take a few moments to compose yourself.”
Evelyn lowered herself with infinite care, the wooden seat unforgiving beneath her raw and tender bottom. Even the thick cotton of her old-fashioned underthings offered little cushion. They seemed to cling tight, warmed from within by the incessant prickling sting.
She recalled an old memory. A few lines from a book she’d once read, a theme she’d never forgotten. It took place within a classroom, just like this, and the idea had lived inside her for years, waiting and hoping for such an opportunity.
While she sat, enduring the throb of her smarting behind, the soreness pulsing in wave after wave, a silent thought echoed through her mind. I did it. I was afraid, but I did it.
Deep inside, a long-held question, a quiet yearning, was answered. The welts and the bruises would fade, but the memory would last forever. She let the stillness settle around her, a strange, profound calm filling the space where her anxiety had been.
This had not been pretend, nor was it play. It was something that had left a lasting mark... both inside and out.
Act 5 – Two Sides of Courage
The museum café was nearly empty at this hour, while the staff wiped down tables and cashed-up the till in the background. Evelyn sat opposite Miss Hartley, hands wrapped around a mug of tea she hadn’t yet sipped. Her fingers trembled. Not from fear, but from everything that had happened.
Miss Hartley stirred her coffee, eyes lowered. When she looked up, a delighted smirk played upon her lips.
“I’m glad you stayed to talk,” she said.
Evelyn gave a nervous laugh, running a hand through her hair. “I was so close to backing out earlier, you know. Even when you called me to the front, I almost froze.”
Miss Hartley’s eyes lifted, meeting hers with a flicker of surprise.
“I thought you were incredibly brave,” she said. “Once you stood, you seemed so... steady.”
Evelyn shook her head. “I was steadier after I’d taken the position. It was before that, when I was sitting there. When you explained it all. That’s when I was terrified. But the second I gave myself over to it... or rather, when I gave myself over to you, it was like, I could trust myself.”
Miss Hartley’s expression was soft, almost rueful. “It’s funny,” she said. “That was when my nerves started.”
Evelyn blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I was calm while I was speaking. That part was familiar, playing my usual teacher’s role, explaining history, reciting what would happen. But when you bent over the desk, when I was about to raise the cane, aim it at your behind, that’s when my heart leapt.”
She gave a small, tight laugh, her eyes locked on Evelyn’s. “I kept thinking, what if I get this wrong? What if she changes her mind, and I’ve already crossed the line? When you trusted me enough to stay bent over, I realised I was holding something fragile. You... I mean, and the faith you had in me.”
Evelyn began to see her not as an untouchable figure at the front of the room, but as a young woman, not much older than herself. Together, they had crossed a line that afternoon. Something warm and unexpected blossomed between them. A shared vulnerability, and a spark of connection.
Evelyn gazed at Miss Hartley, astonished. “And I thought you were completely sure.”
“I wasn’t,” Miss Hartley admitted, her voice low. “I was as much in that moment as you were.”
An intimate hush settled, and the last edge of tension melted from Evelyn’s body, replaced by a warmth that wasn’t just relief. It was something tender, aching, and alive. Whether it was desire, or the first flickers of something more, she couldn’t yet decide. But she knew they had crossed a threshold, not only of ritual, but of trust. Evelyn felt the unmistakable sense that this might be only the beginning.
“It’s strange,” Evelyn said. “The idea’s been sitting inside me for years. Ever since I read an old novel. It wasn’t a big scene, just a few lines, a schoolroom punishment, but it stayed with me. I’d always wondered what it would be like to stand in that space, to face the discipline. Not as a game, not as something naughty, but as something... real.”
Miss Hartley watched her. “It sounds like you wanted to carry the weight of history, however briefly.”
Evelyn nodded. “Yes, exactly.”
Miss Hartley reached across the table and covered Evelyn’s hand with her own. It was a small gesture, but her touch felt electric. There was no performance this time, just warmth and intimacy.
“Thank you,” Miss Hartley said, her voice warm and a little raw, “for trusting me with this.”
Evelyn let out a slow, shaky sigh.
They sat, sharing the quiet, the steam rising from their mugs, while the sounds of chairs stacking continued in the background. Two young women, trembling, and processing the strange and delicate experience they had shared.
Act 6 – The Trace That Lingers
Evelyn walked back to her car, the evening air cool against her skin. She could feel a throbbing ache where the cane strokes had landed. It was not so sharp now, but remained a warm reminder beneath her clothes, a trace of something real. She placed a hand over the seat of her jeans. The sting reassured her, confirming this had not been one of her dreams.
She paused again by the car door, glancing at her reflection in the window glass. There was the same modern face as always, and yet something seemed altered. She thought back to the mirror in the prop room, the way she had seen herself in the uniform. A different girl, a different time, carrying the weight of rules and consequences that had once been real.
And then she thought of stepping up to the front of the classroom, her heart racing, surrendering herself to the experience, trusting Miss Hartley, and trusting herself. She had been terrified, but brave, embracing the submission and vulnerability. In the strangest, most unexpected way, she felt whole.
Evelyn grinned, one hand resting on the car door. This wasn’t a secret she had to hide; not any more. It was no longer a fantasy, but an experience she had dared to live. She slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and eased out into the quiet dusk.
The prickly smarting remained, warm beneath the fabric of her jeans. For the first time in a long while, Evelyn felt entirely herself. And, with a tingle of anticipation blooming at her core, she knew she was no longer alone with her secrets...