Return to St Hilda’s
Television presenter, Suzie Riley, returns to St Hilda’s School, seeking permission to film a heart-warming documentary, but after a very sound spanking, she finds it’s not her heart that’s been warmed. The redoubtable Miss Forsyth believes in rigorous corporal punishment, and won’t agree to anything until Miss Riley has earned her stripes; all six of them! With this headmistress in charge, there are no slip-ups, only slippers... and a formidable crook-handled cane.
from 📚 The Seat of Learning
After half a dozen years with Surrey & Kent Independent Productions, Suzie Riley still experienced a thrill whenever she was invited up to the production suite office. As she padded along the plush carpet, admiring the elegant decor, she tried to fine-tune her proud girlish grin into what she'd come to think of as her executive smile. It was oddly like being back at school again, only this time the corridor was warmer, teachers were replaced by network executives, and she was judged by audience share – rather than grades.
Under soft lighting, posters of the station’s most celebrated productions lined each wall. The likes of “Antique Pursuits” and “Gossip Salon” were notable successes, loved by viewers. However, it was hard to suppress a snigger as she passed some of their less wholesome efforts. In the poster for “Topless Table Tennis”, a pair of buxom beauties somehow managed to put up a façade of respectability with their strategically positioned bats. Though it had been a domestic flop, the show found unexpected bounce in the European market, hitting a sweet spot and allowing the network to boast some exceptional export figures.
In contrast, the company was justly proud of its flagship series: “The Good Old Days”, which was now entering its third season. This year, they had elevated Suzie Riley to become the new face of the programme.
This charming regional documentary explored different aspects of local life and popular episodes included, “A Day With the Mayoress”, and “Studies in Amateur Theatre”. From behind-the-scenes shenanigans at the village fete to fascinating factual titbits, it quickly became an enormous success.
Its producer, Malcolm Hardcastle, greeted Suzie with enthusiasm as she settled into their meeting. After expressing his delight in having her on-board, he got straight to the bottom of the matter in hand.
“Suzie, darling, I’ve got a peach of a challenge for you,” he said. “For two seasons we’ve been trying to get a foot in the door of St Hilda’s, without success, but as a former pupil, I’m hoping the headmistress might give you a fair crack of the whip. Frankly, I’ve found Miss Forsyth to be a bit of an enigma. Brilliant, of course, although rather old-fashioned.”
Old-fashioned would be one way of describing the headmistress, Suzie thought, or aspiring Victorian Governess would be another. She felt a flutter in her tummy at the prospect of facing the formidable Miss Forsyth once again. The woman’s piercing wit and withering gaze had a way of making even the senior prefects feel like recalcitrant specimens, trapped under a microscope slide.
“I doubt she'll remember me, Malcolm. It’s been six years.” Suzie tried to sound confident, but couldn’t hide the tremor in her voice. Her words reflected the stoic conviction of someone who was still half-expecting to be awarded a detention.
“On the contrary,” he replied. “It was she who contacted us. She saw some of the recent publicity material and the profiles we ran about you in the local press, announcing your promotion to become our new host. It’s funny. She seemed rather eager to meet you, actually.”
The young woman frowned, trying to imagine what this could be about. Miss Forsyth had been terrifying to her as a pupil, but at least this time they would be meeting as equals, each of them a professional in their own field.
“And, I presume you have some sort of plan,” Suzie said.
“Miss Forsyth has scheduled the meeting on Saturday morning, out-of-hours, to avoid disrupting school activities,” Malcolm said. “She expects you at her office at 9:30 sharp. It’s typical of a headmistress to be a stickler for punctuality, but I’m counting on you to make an impeccable impression, Suzie.”
He paused, his voice betraying a hint of strain. “I’ve lost count of all the requests and discussions we’ve had. We’ve poured in so much effort, and this private meeting between the two of you is the ultimate piece of the jigsaw. Flexibility and access are essential for the programme to hit home. I really need you to make this happen... whatever it takes.”
Suzie took a deep breath. Her excitement was tinged with trepidation, and a ticklish shiver ran down her spine. There was something about Miss Forsyth’s invitation that didn’t quite seem to add up. Turning to leave, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was walking into a cunning trap.
The question of why Miss Forsyth was so keen to see her, played on Suzie’s mind for days, but Saturday morning arrived with all the dread inevitability of an unwelcome dentist’s appointment. She may not have been the best of students, but she had never found herself in any serious trouble at school. The whole situation carried an air of peculiar mystery.
Suzie was already nervous, but the butterflies began in earnest as soon as she stepped into the quiet hallway that led to the headmistress’s study. There was no plush carpet this time, and her heeled ankle boots clacked against the well-trodden parquet flooring. The sound of heels must have announced her presence to Miss Forsyth as she approached the door.
“Enter,” came the staccato summons, before she knocked. Suzie’s hand lingered on the doorknob, feeling a moment of hesitation as old school memories came flooding back.
Miss Forsyth was exactly as Suzie remembered. Adorned in her tweed suit and pearls, she was seated in the leather chair behind her desk; tall, upright, and uncompromising. In the background, the brooding tick of the wall clock pulsed like a heartbeat, providing rhythm to the room’s formality.
Unlike meetings at the studio offices, this stern and detached figure of authority was far less inclined towards small-talk. Her manner was as spare and austere as her domain, the desktop clear, except for her telephone and a single buff folder.
Suzie was trying to present a confident, preppy air, which she hoped might disguise her nervousness, though she doubted it would fool anyone. She wore one of her favourite outfits. A short, pleated skirt in a bold plaid, paired with a silk turtleneck sweater in the rich, jewel-toned colour of a fine wine. She had pulled back her hair into a sleek ponytail, a simple silver necklace and elegant earrings completing the look.
“You’ve come a long way,” Miss Forsyth observed. “Quite the local celebrity, I see.”
Suzie hesitated, unsure whether those words had been a compliment or a diagnosis. Despite her age, she was rather overawed in the presence of her former headmistress. She had an unnerving sense of having never left the school. Miss Forsyth still seemed to be addressing her as though she were a uniformed sixth former. She could feel a warm flush rising from her neck to her cheeks, the nervous dampness of perspiration prickling under her arms.
“Thank you, Miss Forsyth,” she replied with a careful nod. “I’m sure everything I learned at St Hilda’s must have stood me in good stead. It’ll be an honour to celebrate the school in one of our episodes this season.”
“Yes- well, before I make my final decision about that, there are matters we must address. For instance...”
A manicured hand slid the file folder to the centre of her desk, flipping it open to reveal a mixed collection of paperwork. Suzie recognised the usual station contract document, but alongside it were several newspaper and magazine clippings. Stepping closer to the desk, Suzie could see that a pink highlighter pen had been used to mark some of the text.
“Read this one aloud, if you please,” Miss Forsyth demanded. Suzie winced, partly from the jarring strictness of the headmistress’s tone, and also because she recognised this recent clipping from The Echo.
“But, Miss Forsyth,” Suzie protested, “you have to understand these press reports are never completely accurate. They often exaggerate...”
“Just the highlighted section, please,” came the insistent interruption, as if Suzie hadn’t spoken.
Sporting a schoolgirly blush that belied her twenty-four years of age, she began to read the first news clipping.
Already a familiar face on regional television, Suzie Riley turned heads this week with the announcement that she is taking the helm of the ever-popular programme: “The Good Old Days”. A local girl through and through, she gave us a confessional interview about her schooldays at St Hilda’s. Miss Riley recalls the pranks that kept life ever so entertaining. “There was the great dormitory pillow fight”, she grinned. “We all got the slipper for that one, but the look on Miss Forsyth’s face was worth the feathery mess, and the soreness below.” She goes on to boast that most of their horseplay was “perfectly harmless” and always carried out with a conspiratorial eye to posterity.
Miss Forsyth’s mouth tightened into the thin, disapproving line that never failed to send an anxious shiver through any naughty girl. The stern lady steepled her fingers while the tension grew.
“Miss Riley,” she began, her words as cool as if she were reviewing an unsatisfactory report card, “it is one thing to recall youthful foolishness in private, but it's quite something else to parade it for public entertainment. I expect much better than cheap publicity-seeking anecdotes.”
From the file, she slid a second page, the same pink highlighting marking a section of text in the middle column. “Now, read this one.”
Again, Suzie recognised the page. It was from the Sunday Courant, a local gossipy supplement. She began to read once again, the pinkness in her cheeks warming by another degree.
In our chat over one or two glasses of something bubbly, Suzie Riley spills delightful details of her mischievous St Hilda’s escapades. She chuckles as she recalls how the girls would smuggle Babycham into the dormitories as the ultimate act of defiance. During their hushed midnight revelries, the threat of Miss Forsyth’s infamous crook-handled cane was less of a deterrent and more of an adrenaline-fuelled challenge. “We knew the consequences”, she giggles, “and I can tell you that it really sharpened the thrill.” Riley frames rebellion as a deliciously naughty sport, perfumed with scandal and always worth the risk of a painful denouement. With a cheeky wink, she tells me, “If you’re going to get the cane, you might as well have the kudos of a scandalous story to tell.”
Suzie was blushing furiously, unable to look her former headmistress in the eye.
“You can't take these articles at face value, Miss Forsyth,” she insisted. “They’re always written like that to stir up a buzz of publicity around the show.”
But, it was clear from Miss Forsyth’s icy expression that she took them very seriously indeed. In her eyes, provocative stories, celebrating mischief and sensation, undermined both herself and the school. Her voice remained low and unamused.
“For someone who is seeking my cooperation in a television programme,” she said, “your conduct is far from persuasive. I had a good mind to turn down your request outright.”
Suzie’s face fell, as visions of Mr Hardcastle’s disappointment flashed through her mind. This had been a marvellous opportunity to prove herself, by accomplishing something that the combined efforts of the station’s production team had failed to achieve for two years in a row.
“However,” Miss Forsyth continued, “since you claim to relish a scandalous anecdote, I’m inclined to indulge your vanity, for old times' sake.”
Demonstrating the drama for which she was infamous, Miss Forsyth took a fountain pen from her drawer and set it beside the document, sliding the other papers to the side of the desk.
“If you want me to sign this contract, you will have to face the consequences of your self-confessed misdemeanours.”
Suzie spluttered in disbelieving laughter. “Yeah- you know, for a moment there I almost thought you were serious!”
Miss Forsyth didn’t move, her expression remaining neutral.
“Come now, Suzie,” she said with a wry smirk. “I thought you claimed to revel in the kudos of a scandalous tale.”
“But really?” Suzie gave a spirited chuckle, although it was beginning to lean towards the bleak humour of someone who suspected they’d just spectacularly failed a surprise test. “This is beyond a joke, right? You can’t expect me to go along with this perverse proposal?”
The implacable headmistress rose from her seat and took up a contemplative stance beside the office bay window.
“I do not consider this to be a laughing matter, Miss Riley. It seems to me that securing this filming agreement would be quite the feather in your cap. It’s up to you of course, but you had better think fast. I'll give you to the count of three to make up your mind.”
Suzie stared back in disbelief, eyes agog, as she heard the count of: “One!”
There was no time for her to think or assess. For a fleeting moment, she visualised her producer’s disappointment, if she were to return to the studio empty-handed.
“Two!” Miss Forsyth’s relentless count continued.
And then, Suzie’s mind flicked back to her schooldays, and this no-nonsense headmistress. How could she have been so foolish as to trumpet her boastful confessions of pillow fights and illicit alcohol smuggling? Miss Forsyth was bound to consider that a slippering was the minimal remedy for this level of misdemeanour.
“Three!” Miss Forsyth concluded, raising an impatient, quizzical eyebrow.
The prospect of a brief, albeit painful humiliation, contrasted with the lasting glory of returning to the studio with the signed contract in hand. As her mind raced, an old lesson from a Business Studies class came to mind. The impact on her career represented a massive return on investment, while the impact upon her rear was merely a short-term, unavoidable expenditure. The lure of advancement, a possible career-defining breakthrough, finally settled the decision in Suzie’s mind.
“Okay-okay. You win, Miss Forsyth.” Suzie blurted the words, dreamlike, not yet fully comprehending the awful implications of her decision.
“It’s not a matter of a win, or otherwise,” Miss Forsyth corrected. “Before I welcome you and your television programme into our school, I expect you to exhibit the utmost respect and decorum. I'll do my best to re-educate you, Miss Riley, on some finer points of discipline that you appear to have forgotten.”
With a sulky pout, Suzie reflected that this was more humiliation than re-education, but Miss Forsyth held all the cards.
Suzie experienced an odd sense of detachment, like a flashback scene from a long-forgotten movie. She watched as Miss Forsyth lifted a blue canvas shoe-bag from her filing cabinet drawer. The bag bore the faded letters, “P, E”, but this was no random item from lost property. The single item that emerged would have chilled any former pupil of St Hilda's.
It was a large, gentleman’s slipper, its uppers a frayed blue-gold tartan. However, it was not the uppers that drew Suzie’s attention, but the yellowy vulcanised rubber sole. Polished smooth by years of use, and possessed of an alarming heft, she had encountered this item on several occasions, and cringed at the very sight of the dreadful thing.
“I presume you remember this, young lady?” the headmistress asked, turning the slipper in her hand with calm indifference
Suzie’s mouth was dry, her tongue feeling tacky as she tried to compose herself. “I do, Miss Forsyth,” she mumbled.
“Excuse me?” came the imperious, headmistressly voice.
With a lick of her lips and a sour grimace, Suzie spoke up with more clarity. “Yes, Miss. Of course I remember it.”
Miss Forsyth frowned.
“I’d appreciate a response with a bit less attitude, if you don’t mind. Apparently you don’t remember quite well enough; yet! But don’t worry. You're about to receive a reminder. Skirt up, Miss Riley, and bend! Forearms flat on the desk. Many things have changed, but this is one procedure that remains unaltered.”
Oh, great, Suzie silently mused. I’ve been reduced from award-nominated presenter to naughty schoolgirl, and in less than five minutes.
With hopeless resignation and bracing herself for the worst, Suzie obeyed, staring at the unsigned contract document. It lay there on the desk, a few tormenting inches from her nose, beside the motionless pen. The cost of ambition was about to be levied against her dignity! Miss Forsyth’s message was as clear as the contract’s empty signature box. Unequivocal submission was her only option.
Suzie's heeled boots raised her almost onto tiptoes, and the toned muscles of her thighs and bottom pulled taut as she leaned forward over the desktop. The position put her delectable rear assets on humiliating display, prominent and supremely vulnerable.
“But, how many, Miss Forsyth,” she asked, her voice timid.
There came a dramatic pause, while the headmistress circled behind her, tapping the slipper against her palm.
“Twelve, Miss Riley.”
Suzie swung her head around, her mouth falling open. Never, in all her years at St Hilda’s, had she heard of more than six swats being prescribed.
“What? You can’t be serious!”
“Shall we say eighteen, then?” Miss Forsyth replied, indifferent to the protest.
There was an icy resolve in her reply, and Suzie knew she ought to have remained silent. But, before she realised it, she blurted out another reply, feeling an immediate surge of regret.
“No! You can’t. Please, Miss Forsyth.”
Betraying herself with a wicked grin, Miss Forsyth updated the declared imposition once again. “Twenty-four! Any advance on that, Miss Riley?”
Despondent, recognising that she was comprehensively vanquished, Suzie turned back to the desk. Through sheer hopelessness, she could feel a tear welling at the corner of her eye, and she tried to blink it back, lest it drip onto the contract document in front of her.
Accepting this as a sign of acquiescence, Miss Forsyth took aim, placing the cool rubber sole of the slipper against the delicate, lace-edged cotton briefs stretched tight across Suzie’s firm cheeks.
St Hilda's folklore suggested this slipper originally belonged to the founding father of the school, Dr Clarence Peabody. He was reputed to have been six-foot-six tall, and blessed with size thirteen feet. It had acquired the nickname of: Unlucky-13.
The spanking began with a solid, powerful WHUMP. The broad rubber sole encompassed almost the full width of Suzie’s pert posterior, and she couldn’t stifle her howl of surprise as the stinging pain bit deep and spread – like warm treacle melting into hot buns.
There was no contrived drama; no counting. There was the briefest of pauses before the procedure repeated. Again, there came the burning jolt of impact. It sent a ripple through Suzie's bottom, accompanied by another stinging spread of warmth.
“Please, Miss Forsyth,” Suzie protested. “It’s too much! I’m far too old for this!”
The headmistress sighed. “If you cause me to lose count, Miss Riley, I shall have to begin again. Is that what you want?”
The interruption had bought a few seconds of respite, but Suzie could feel the slipper lightly tapping against her rear, and knew that any relief would be short-lived.
“No, Miss Forsyth,” she whimpered. “Please don’t start again.”
Already in a position that was embarrassingly immature, Suzie felt Miss Forsyth move in close against her hip, a resolute arm snaking around to encircle her slim waist. She found herself pinned tight against the headmistress’s immovable frame, unable to resist.
Exemplifying a precision born from decades of encounters with innumerable bottoms, Miss Forsyth unleashed a relentless volley of firm spanks. Her aim was exact – the force unyielding. This was no mere token gesture, but a rigorous and uncompromising administration of traditional corporal punishment.
The slipper’s heavy, flexible sole dotted from cheek to cheek, its aim meandering from her bottom to the tops of her thighs. The spread and severity of the spanking ensured that the entirety of Suzie’s rear was set alight, the smarting rapidly swelling in depth and intensity.
The silence, when it came, was thunderous. The blistering punishment had lasted a fraction under sixty seconds, but to the tearful and contrite young woman, it had seemed like an eternity. The insubstantial fabric of her panties couldn't conceal the glowing redness, and her backside burned with a persistent heat that she longed to massage. But, from bitter experience, she had learned Miss Forsyth tolerated no premature deviation from the position.
“Stay precisely where you are,” the headmistress reminded her, returning the slipper to its drawer. “There is one more thing before we conclude this matter.”
With a jarring immediacy that caused Suzie to flinch, the telephone rang.
Miss Forsyth gave the instrument an exasperated frown. After a second’s hesitation, she pressed an index finger to her lips, indicating Suzie should remain silent, and then touched the speaker button to accept the call.
“Miss Forsyth,” the familiar voice of Malcolm Hardcastle rang out through the silence. “I’m awfully sorry to interrupt. It’s just we’re on tenterhooks here, and I thought perhaps a quick courtesy call, in case there was anything you needed to ask me?”
Even Miss Forsyth couldn’t hide her amusement at the serendipitous timing of this phone call. She sat back in her chair, observing Suzie’s horrified, blushing expression with sly relish.
“Oh, I would say our meeting has been most educational. I always take a firm stance, as I’m sure Miss Riley will confirm, and I think I’m making my position very clear.”
“I'm delighted to hear that,” came Malcolm's cheerful reply. “I fully expected Miss Riley would be flexible during your discussions. Is she there? I’d like to express my thanks.”
“I’m here, Mr Hardcastle,” Suzie said, trying to conceal the shakiness in her voice. “I can't deny the negotiations proved more delicate than I’d anticipated. I had to bend to Miss Forsyth's requirements, but I hope we’ve reached an understanding.”
“It sounds like you've learned a valuable lesson in firm negotiation technique, Miss Riley,” he continued, but Suzie scarcely heard the rest of his words. Her eyes were drawn back to Miss Forsyth, revolving in her chair and retrieving a familiar item from the bookshelf. She placed it onto the desk, together with a short, handwritten note.
The forbidding words sent a chill direct to Suzie’s core.
“I will sign the documentary contract for you... after six strokes of the cane!“
The note, alongside the fearsome sight of the crook-handled cane, formed a bleak, inescapable montage across the broad desk. Suzie knew the dark, burnished rattan promised an even more agonising precision, beyond anything that a slipper could hope to achieve.
“Are you still there, Miss Riley?” Malcolm’s voice queried, seeming to call to her from a great distance.
Miss Forsyth spoke first. “Why don’t you go ahead, Suzie? I think it falls to you to announce the outcome of today’s meeting. Do you have some good news for Mr Hardcastle?”
She rose from her seat, moving out of sight. Suzie’s eyes flicked from the note and the intimidating rattan school-cane, to the contract document impatiently awaiting a signature, and finally, back to the cane.
With a nervous gulp, she replied. “Yes, Mr Hardcastle. You’ll be very pleased to hear that Miss Forsyth...”
But then Suzie froze, mid-sentence, as warm fingers slipped into the waistband of her panties, easing them down into a bunch around her thighs. With a sinking feeling of abject mortification, she cringed in embarrassment, and barely managed to regain sufficient composure to speak again.
“...that’s to say, you’ll be pleased to hear that Miss Forsyth has agreed to sign the contract – in just a few minutes' time. I’ll bring it back to the studio later this morning.”
“Wonderful, wonderful,” he beamed. “It sounds like you’ve flown through these negotiations by the seat of your pants, but I always thought you'd thrive under applied pressure, Miss Riley. Well done!”
Leaning forward, Miss Forsyth said her goodbyes, simultaneously ending the call and taking hold of the curved, polished handle of her cane. Suzie waited, hardly able to believe the predicament in which she found herself.
She was no longer a schoolgirl. She was a grown woman, and Miss Forsyth should have wielded no authority over her, let alone be wielding an old-fashioned school cane in this manner. Yet, with the verbal assurance she had given to her producer, any possibility of backing out had dissolved. She was now absolutely committed. Facing the same grim certainty as any pupil of St. Hilda's, she had no option but to endure the headmistress's uncompromising brand of old-fashioned discipline.
“This time, you will count the strokes out loud,” Miss Forsyth declared. “After six across your bare bottom, I suspect you’ll have learned to think twice before participating in disrespectful, impertinent editorials in the local press.”
When she left school at the age of eighteen, Suzie had every reason to believe this type of situation was behind her. Now, at twenty-four, the ominous tapping pressure addressed her seat once again. Thirty-six inches of pliant rattan, slender and cruel, about to unleash all of its fearful potential.
The piercing sound of the never-to-be-forgotten THWACK at the cane’s merciless moment of impact, echoed around the office, and its blazing, concentrated sting shot through her reddened rear. It was even worse than she remembered. If anything, the passage of time and the maturity of age, seemed to magnify the throbbing pain that pulsed and swelled throughout her already stinging buttocks.
Trying to steady her breathing, Suzie managed to give a doleful count of: “One, Miss.”
The words were still upon her lips when a second almighty THWACK cut across the first stripe, the cane's bite igniting a fresh wave of scalding torment. The new stripe burned, but even worse, it seemed to intensify the lingering sting of the first one. Suzie's body twitched as she struggled to regain control. The pain was overwhelming, and it was difficult to cling to any modicum of composure.
“Two, Miss.” THWACK!
Suzie’s concluding word, “Miss,” overlapped with the sound of the third cane stroke, which absolutely did not miss. Her voice dissolved into an anguished squeal as the fiery, penetrating sting seared across her naked flesh, adding another raised, elongated welt to her angry scarlet behind. Her knees momentarily buckled as the smarting heat throbbed.
“Please, Miss Forsyth. I’ve learned my lesson, I promise!”
But the stalwart headmistress remained unmoved by the assurance. “I just want to hear the count, Riley. You know the drill. No backchat, or I will add an additional stroke to your punishment.”
“Three, Miss,” Suzie quickly stammered, desperate to comply. She pulled an involuntary grimace as she steeled herself for the next biting whack.
Whether in a rare moment of compassion, or simply due to re-gathering her aim, there was a short but welcome pause. Suzie had a few seconds, enough time to note the tick-tock of the wall clock, before a fourth emphatic THWACK sliced across the precise crease between her bottom and thigh. The excruciating, focussed energy elicited a cry that reverberated around the office.
“Hold your position, Riley,” came Miss Forsyth’s harsh instruction, sensing a wriggly squirm from her former pupil.
“I’m sorry, Miss. That’s four, Miss.” Suzie’s response was prompt, but sullen.
With a brief tap, the cane took aim, followed by another cracking THWACK, a smidgen above the last stripe. Suzie’s mouth shot open in a silent intake of breath as fresh waves of pain washed over her bottom, building like the surge of a tidal wave.
“Five, Miss.” Her voice trembled now, beginning to break into sobs. There was a glimmer of solace in knowing that only one stroke remained, but this thought was tempered by the recollection that, somehow, Miss Forsyth always saved the worst for last.
The seconds dragged. Suzie waited. Her jaw clenched.
Then, finally, the dreaded, anticipated THWACK rang out. The sharp report blended into Suzie's yelp of shock. With precise purpose, Miss Forsyth had aimed the last stroke low, seeking the same sensitive sit-spot.
“Six, Miss,” Suzie acknowledged, sulkily brushing the tears from her cheeks before resuming the time-honoured position.
The exquisite sharp crack of the cane continued to ring in Suzie’s ears for several more seconds, before silence reigned. The unflinching headmistress replaced her implement upon the shelf and returned to her seat. She assessed this young woman, who had arrived in her office thoroughly unprepared for this formal, punitive chastisement.
“And so,” Miss Forsyth announced, “as you have now settled the account for your past transgressions and the regrettable media coverage, I shall, of course, honour my side of the agreement.”
She took up her pen, signing her name across the documentary contract with a flourish. “I believe that concludes our business for today and, next time, I look forward to working alongside you in a manner of mutual respect and consideration.”
At last, Suzie stood, hurriedly pulling up her panties and smoothing her skirt. She collected the contract document, her hands trembling.
Her bottom and the tops of her thighs pulsed in a heartbeat throb of raw heat and smarting. Whether she too would look forward to working with Miss Forsyth in the future, was something she had yet to determine.
Epilogue
The women met again a week later, this time in the safer territory of the studio’s photographic suite. “We simply need a few publicity shots for the TV Guide,” Malcolm had assured her. Suzie had become wary of any press-related matters since her unforgettable confrontation with the formidable Miss Forsyth.
Faint traces of bruising still lingered on the lower curve of her right buttock, where the final three cane strokes had overlapped. The prickly tingle, whenever she sat down, provided a reminder to exercise the utmost caution.
“I understand the aesthetic you're going for,” Suzie told the stylist, “but I’m concerned Miss Forsyth won’t approve. She was adamant about avoiding any overt media sensation.”
To her surprise, Miss Forsyth herself chipped in. “It’s quite all right, Miss Riley, but thank you for checking. I’ve already approved these photographs.”
Suzie frowned, incredulous, peering at the immaculate St Hilda’s school uniform laid out upon the props’ table. A short, pleated grey skirt, white blouse and tie, complete with a grey blazer, leather shoes, and knee-length pelerine socks.
While Suzie undressed and changed in the corner of the photo studio, she was careful to ensure her behind remained pointed towards the wall, steered away from her colleagues. The stylist claimed the uniform was the largest size that could be obtained at short notice, but the tightness of the skirt around her hips caused the hemline to rise... accompanying her rising blushes.
Later on, reviewing the photo-proofs in conference with Malcolm Hardcastle, Suzie could not conceal her embarrassment. In a perfectly turned-out school uniform, she was pictured standing beside Miss Forsyth. As ever, the headmistress embodied stern grandeur, her cane resting casually against her hip as a definitive authoritarian signature.
“The photographs are superb, Miss Riley,” he observed. “Exactly what we need for the programme’s promo material. It’s remarkable how you seem to have captured the raw authenticity of anxiety beside your old headmistress.”
“Raw is certainly right,” Suzie muttered, under her breath.
As Malcolm continued to browse the photographs, Suzie privately speculated that he was enjoying the sight of her in a snug-fitting uniform more than was required for a preliminary editorial review. His eyes lingered upon one of the close-up shots that emphasised the way her curves were squeezed into the confines of the slim blouse and blazer.
“You've really grown-into this role, Suzie. It’s as if you’re channelling an inner naughty schoolgirl who’s about to be summoned to the office. I wonder, have you ever considered taking up a career in acting?”
Suzie let out a resigned sigh, thinking, If only he knew. Method acting has its advocates, but it was a technique that carried long-lasting consequences. With a wince, she muttered something about headmistresses and tender reminiscences, silently praying the production team wouldn't conspire to schedule a sequel.
A few months later, season three of “The Good Old Days” opened with 'Return to St Hilda's' as its premiere episode. The viewing figures surpassed all previous records.
In her office the following morning, Miss Forsyth added a triumphant local newspaper clipping to her Miss Suzie Riley dossier. “Rarely has the debut of a fresh television host shown such a disciplined polish of authenticity,” the article announced.
With a smile of satisfaction, the headmistress reflected that, for this particular St Hilda's alumni, her successful modern career had clearly benefited from a sharp, bespoke application of old-fashioned, behind-the-scenes correction...
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