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 with menace 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.
Act 1 – Echoes of Discipline
The Living Museum of Yesteryear was a tapestry, each exhibit a thread woven with meticulous care to transport visitors to another time. These whispers and echoes of the past were not merely remembered, but breathed and lived. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and the faintest must of relics, as if the walls held memories of generations.
Evelyn wandered through the corridors, her tummy fluttering with a mix of curiosity and something else. Something closer to a thrill of anticipation. A miner’s cottage, a bathtub before a coal fire, a butcher’s shop with an apple-cheeked actor behind the counter. Each of these scenes provoked only passing smiles. But then she turned a corner and stopped.
Before her stood a doorway that seemed to pulse with a silent, charged energy. The plain and simple sign read “1950s Classroom”, and Evelyn felt a surge of history pressing against her, drawing her closer. The sight triggered a cascade of suppressed, secretive desires, an anxious excitement that coursed through her veins.
Inside, the room was a time capsule. Rows of desks, their surfaces scarred with the initials of long-forgotten pupils. A blackboard stretched across the far wall, faint white ghosts of old equations still visible. And, upon the teacher’s desk, resting with unspoken authority, a crook handled school cane.
At the sight of it, Evelyn froze. A long-suppressed desire stirred in the hush of the meticulously recreated classroom. Her thighs tensed and she forced herself to look away from the fearful implement.
Her gaze landed instead on the figure at the front of the room. A young woman dressed in a prim, tailored skirt suit, hair swept into a severe bun. Not a classical beauty, but bearing a striking prettiness beneath the starch. She held herself with authority, as if she might be commanding a room of thirty girls, not standing alone in a quiet diorama.
“Please keep your voice down when you are in the classroom,” Miss Hartley said, her voice crisp and authoritative, like the swift stroke of a chalk on slate. “And raise your hand if you have a question.” Her eyes seemed to bore into Evelyn, as if daring her to disobey.
Evelyn’s mouth went dry. That one incisive moment of command sent a shiver down her spine, leaving her feeling strangely exposed.
The woman’s expression softened, her gaze lingering on Evelyn's face, as if sensing the turmoil beneath her surface.
“Don't take me too seriously,” she said, her voice low and husky, with a hint of a smile. “It's all part of the act. If you have any questions, anything at all, I'd love to help.” Her smile seemed to bear a secret. A whispered promise that only Evelyn could hear.
There was a long silence. Evelyn shifted, feeling like she was waiting for a summons to the front of the room.
“I suppose,” Evelyn ventured, “I was wondering... do you ever — I mean, do you always stay in character?” She felt a flush rise to her cheeks, feeling as if she was asking something far more intimate.
“Not always. Not for everyone,” the woman said, her eyes glinting. “But some visitors seem to expect it. I suppose it helps with immersion.”
“Right. Yes — I think it's...” Evelyn hesitated, unsure of her own thoughts, her eyes locked on Miss Hartley's. “Effective. At least, it's effective for... me.” The admission felt like a confession, surrendering to an enchanting attraction that seemed to be building.
The woman smiled, watching her with a quiet steadiness. Evelyn stiffened. Can she sense what I’m thinking? Something that I’d never dare to ask for out loud?
“We close at four, but I’m always around for a while after that.” Miss Hartley's eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief, her gaze holding Evelyn's with a seductive, insistent pressure. “Perhaps you have other questions, ones that require a more... private discussion?”
Evelyn’s cheeks flushed. She nodded — grateful, nervous, uncertain — and stepped back.
She tried to tell herself she would continue through the other exhibits. But already, her mind was racing, the rest of the museum fading into a blur. As she walked away, she sensed Miss Hartley's gaze 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, the lights dimmed in the side galleries. Evelyn’s palms were moist. She could barely believe she’d come back. And yet, here she was, at the threshold of the schoolroom. She knew it wasn't real and yet, in this moment, it became more real than she had ever dared to hope.
Miss Hartley stood beside the teacher’s desk, tidying a stack of visitor pamphlets. She glanced up, her mouth twitching into a smile. There was a flicker of amusement, and something more. Something that made Evelyn’s pulse race.
“I hoped you'd be back,” Miss Hartley said.
Evelyn gave a shaky laugh. “I'm not certain why I came,” she said, her eyes darting away from Miss Hartley's piercing gaze.
Miss Hartley's smile was a subtle, enigmatic curve of her lips. “Deep down, perhaps you are,” she replied, her voice laced with insight. “I wonder if you've always been searching for something you can't quite bring yourself to admit. Something that's been hiding in the shadows, waiting to be acknowledged.”
The pause that followed stretched long enough that Evelyn’s heart began to pound, the air between them electric.
“It's not that I want… anything strange,” Evelyn blurted, her cheeks flushing hot. “I just... I've always wanted to know what it was like. To stand there. To experience that moment of traditional 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 hard. Authenticity? That’s what she wanted, wasn’t it?
Miss Hartley reached for a ring of small keys on her belt. “If you’d like, there’s a props room. We keep old uniforms for educational tours. You’d be welcome to try one, if you want to understand the moment. Then you can decide.”
Decide? That was the word that Evelyn pondered, feeling her breath quicken. She was feeling a flutter of anticipation. 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 certain.
This is really happening, she realised, a little dizzy. She was about to step into re-enactment, not fantasy. Miss Hartley’s eyes flicked over her, assessing without judgement. Then she gestured, calm and assured.
“Come with me,” she said, her voice a blend of authority and invitation.
Evelyn took a deep breath and followed. As 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 made a decision then, as she stood alone with Miss Hartley. She would place herself 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 stood, tense, 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 pointed collar, a striped school tie, and — folded beneath — bottle-green gym knickers, black stockings, and polished leather shoes.
“These were standard issue,” Miss Hartley explained, her voice calm and clinical. “Girls wore these every day. It was part of the discipline, and the formality of the uniform was taken 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 would be aware.
Piece by piece, Evelyn undressed. Each layer of modern clothing slipped away like stepping back in time. As she took off her jeans and sweater, she caught a glimpse of herself in the dusty mirror.
With a deep breath, Evelyn reached back and unhooked her bra. The straps slipped from her shoulders with the faintest whisper. Her fingers paused at the waistband of her briefs before she slid them down. Cool air kissed the curve of her hips and bottom, and for a moment she felt exposed in a way that was far deeper than mere nudity.
Her bare skin tingled with goosebumps as she caught her reflection. She wasn’t playing dress-up. She wasn’t experimenting. She was surrendering to something older, more exacting.
It was difficult to know why these thoughts of archaic discipline had resonated with her, forming and evolving through the years. She remembered novels and films she had sought out, to make her dreams feel closer. For a breathless moment, she saw herself not as Evelyn, twenty-first-century woman, but as someone visiting another era.
The thick cotton gym knickers came first, strange and snug as she tugged them over her hips. She felt a quiet thrill at their firmness — the way they confined, rather than flattered.
Then the scratch of woollen stockings and the starched blouse, stiff against her skin and buttoned to the neck. Each item seemed more consequential than she expected. The uniform was more than a costume, each item immersing her deeper into the role. The grey pinafore dress came next, settling over her shoulders, its weight pressing her back into a history she had only dared imagine.
Her fingers, slightly clumsy, tied the striped school tie, the knot unfamiliar after years of casual fashion. She stepped into the polished black shoes, the tap of the leather soles grounding her in this new — or old — self.
She paused for a final reflection in the mirror.
This was like stepping into a dream she’d carried for years. Something she’d never dared put into words. A girl out of time, a figure she’d imagined in stories or old films, now suddenly reflected back at her.
Miss Hartley gave the barest nod, eyes examining her. “Well done. You certainly look the part.”
Evelyn sensed her cheeks blushing. The words were intended to reassure, but they also reminded her of what they were about to do.
Act 4 – Six of the Best
Together they crossed back through the darkened gallery to the classroom. The fading afternoon light fell in long, solemn stripes across the rows of wooden desks. Evelyn’s shoes tapped on the old boards as Miss Hartley gestured 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 setting like this.”
Evelyn sat stiffly in her front-row desk, feeling the press of the wool at her shoulders, the faint squeeze of the waistband at her middle. It's as though history is folding in around me.
Miss Hartley’s voice was steady, cool. “A girl receiving six of the best would be called to the front. She would be told precisely why, and would be given the chance to compose herself, but no opportunity to delay. She would see the cane taken from its place, heightening the anxiety of what was about to follow. The strokes would be severe, unyielding, and counted aloud.
Then she would return to her seat, expected to sit quietly, reflect, and continue with her lessons as if nothing had happened.”
Evelyn swallowed hard, her mouth dry, her mind a churn of nerves and anticipation. She experienced a strange pull of the moment. There was a thrill of apprehension as the sharp edge of reality met her long-imagined curiosity. She tried to imagine the sting. How would it feel, and could she bear it.
For a moment, she questioned if she was mad to have come back here. But then Miss Hartley rose, smoothing the skirt of her navy suit, and her voice, quiet and sure, pulled Evelyn forward.
“Come here, Evelyn,” Miss Hartley said. “The time has come.”
The voice cut through her nerves and it sparked something she hadn’t known she longed for. To be called forward — not as Evelyn from the present, but as the girl she might have been, in another life, in another time. Her body moved before her mind could resist.
Her knees were uncertain, her pulse raced. She tried to keep her eyes lowered as she walked, aware of the creak of the old floorboards, the unfamiliar tug of the uniform against her shoulders.
Miss Hartley stood at the front, composed. To Evelyn, she looked like quiet authority embodied. Cool, unshaken, practised. She knows what she’s doing, Evelyn told herself, clinging to that thought like a lifeline. I can trust her.
Evelyn bent forward as instructed, her forearms pressed flat against the teacher’s desk, the starch of the blouse rough against her skin. She shut her eyes, feeling the air shift behind her as Miss Hartley took her place.
In that moment, bent over, Evelyn felt suspended. It was as though history itself was coiling around her, wrapping her tight in its invisible arms. She was no longer quite herself, and yet had never been more so. Who will I be when I stand up again? Will I be a little changed?
And then came the moment when her skirt was lifted, a cold waft of air passing over the cotton gym knickers, and a surge of fear prickled along her spine. Am I crazy to be doing this? she wondered. It was not only fear of the physical pain, but a deeper, more profound fear of what this meant, 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 line of fire across her rear. Evelyn gasped, her eyes flying open. The sensation was far more intense than she’d ever imagined. It was a stark reminder of a time when physical discipline was not a mere concept, but a tangible, physical truth.
“One,” she heard Miss Hartley announce in a cold, level voice.
She had given herself over to this moment. Miss Hartley continued the punishment 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.
The cane whistled through the quiet air, landing with another thwack. Again, there came the searing explosion of agony that bloomed and transformed into a lingering throb. This stroke landed lower, angled, and the exquisite pain seemed more intense. It was as if the whippy cane were seeking out the most tender places to leave its harsh message.
“That's two, and keep still,” Miss Hartley chided, sensing the merest squirm. Her voice carried a firmness that cut straight through Evelyn’s instinct to shift her weight.
The third stroke landed with the same pistol-crack of impact, and Evelyn yelped with a sound that was almost a cry. The sensation was blazing, and unforgiving, commanding every bit of her attention. It would not soon be forgotten.
“Three. Halfway, Evelyn.”
She managed to hold back a sob, but could feel her composure beginning 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 stroke cut across the exact centre of her bottom, reinvigorating old pain with new purpose.
“That's four.” Miss Hartley announced.
Evelyn's legs trembled. The wool of the stockings itched against her calves, her hips pressing against the desk. She clenched her teeth, struggling to hold on.
The fifth stroke was even worse — swift, punishing, It was a diagonal cut that made her knees quake.
“Five. And remember, you will remain in position after the final stroke. Do not stand until I tell you to do so.”
No words came to Evelyn as she braced for the final stroke of the cane. She knew nothing but heat, and smarting, and the dread sense of thorough chastisement. The tears tickled at the corners of her eyes now, damp and real. Part of her welcomed them.
The sixth stroke landed with terrible precision, deep across the lower curve of her throbbing behind. Evelyn cried out, finally losing her restraint.
“Six.”
Then came silence. Miss Hartley did not speak. The cane hovered, unseen, the atmosphere thick with aftershock.
Evelyn remained bent, her forehead lowered, her breath misting the polished surface of the desk. For a suspended instant, she did not know if she could rise, or if she even wanted to. But at last, Miss Hartley’s voice came, soft and solemn.
“You may stand.”
Evelyn could feel the weight of the past pressing down on her. She rose slowly, blinking back the tears, feeling shaky but determined.
For a moment, she hesitated, her mind in a spin of emotion. Then, as if by instinct, she said, “Thank you, Miss Hartley.”
It slipped out before she knew it, a reflex born from something deeper than manners. A gratitude for being seen, for being given what she had long dreamt about.
Miss Hartley gave a quiet nod, her eyes more gentle now, her hands calmly setting the cane back across the front of the desk, where it lay still and silent once more.
Miss Hartley's hand, tender now, moved to Evelyn's cheek. Her thumb kindly brushed away a stray tear.
“You did well,” Miss Hartley reassured her. “Return to your seat 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 gym knickers offered little cushion. Beneath her they seemed to cling more tightly, warmed 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. In a classroom just such as this, it had lived inside her for years, a secret echo, waiting for this moment.
I did it. I was afraid, but I did it.
Somewhere deep inside, a long-held question, a quiet yearning, had been 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 nerves had been.
This was not pretend, nor was it play. This was something that had left its mark, inside and out.
Act 5 – Two Sides of Courage
The museum café was nearly empty at this hour, the staff wiping down tables and cashing-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, but not from fear now — more from the echo of everything that had happened.
Miss Hartley stirred her coffee, eyes lowered, thoughtful. When she looked up, a smile played upon her lips.
“I’m glad you stayed to talk,” she said, her voice gentle.
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 crossed the floor. 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, to you, it was like…” she struggled for words, “like I could trust myself, for a moment.”
Miss Hartley gave a soft, almost rueful smile. “It's funny,” she murmured. “That was the moment my nerves started.”
Evelyn blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I was calm while I was speaking. That part was easy, playing the 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 you — that’s when my heart leaped in my chest.”
She gave a small, tight laugh, her eyes never leaving 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. Not the cane, but you, and the faith you had in me.”
Evelyn began to see her not as the 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. In that moment, 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.”
A hush settled between them, intimate and full. 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 flicker 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 only be the beginning.
“It’s strange,” Evelyn said. “The idea of this moment’s been sitting in me for years. Ever since I read an old novel. It wasn’t a big scene, only 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 take that punishment. 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 that history, even for the briefest of moments.”
Evelyn nodded, her throat tightening. “Yes. Exactly.”
Miss Hartley reached across the table and covered Evelyn’s hand with her own. It was a small, simple gesture, but it felt electric. There was no performance now, just an intimate moment of warmth.
“Thank you,” Miss Hartley said, her voice warm and a little raw. “For trusting me with this.”
Evelyn let out a slow, shaky sigh. “And thank you too.”
They sat for a moment longer, sharing the quiet, the steam rising from their mugs, the sounds of chairs stacking in the background. Two women, trembling, processing the strange and delicate moments 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 an ache where the cane strokes had landed. It was not so sharp now, but a warm prickling reminder beneath her clothes, a trace of something real. She placed a hand over the seat of her jeans, the sting reassuring her this had not merely been one of her dreams.
She paused by the car door, glancing at her reflection in the window glass. There was the same 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 the moment when she had walked up to the front of the classroom, 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 smiled, one hand resting on the car door. This wasn’t a secret she would bury any more. 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 smarting remained, warm beneath the fabric of her jeans, but it was no longer hers alone to carry. 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.