Unfinished Business
Sophie Heaton believes she’s stepped into a career she’s always dreamt of, until Mrs Grainger, the school’s uncompromising headmistress, discovers a calculated lie she told when she was Head Girl. Back then, Sophie escaped punishment while her friends paid the ultimate price... with six of the best! Now, the truth threatens everything. In ‘Unfinished Business’, Sophie must confront the consequences of that long-forgotten machination and decide how far she’s willing to go to earn something that she desperately desires.
from 📚 Educational Spankings
Act 1 – Memories
Saint Dominic’s was a girls’ boarding school with many traditions. Interhouse Sports Day, always the last Saturday in June, was one of them. From ten until two, the playing fields and refreshment-tent became a hive of activity. Girls and parents dashed between events, competing or spectating, while tannoys and starting pistols formed a soundtrack to the day’s activity.
In the canvas marquee, neat triangular sandwiches lay on doily-lined trays. Beside these, a finger buffet of breaded chicken pieces and dinky sausage rolls. Squash and lemonade for the girls. Tea and fruit-punch for the grown-ups.
There was an hour for small-talk between parents and teachers, then prize giving at three. Meanwhile, the girls, hot and tousled, hurried off to shower and change.
Sophie Heaton was in love. Not in the traditional romantic sense, though romance played its part. It was Saint Dominic’s that had won her affections; a love affair that had begun sometime between Prep and becoming Head Girl.
Slim and athletic, she’d excelled in sports without ever neglecting her studies. But her greatest ambition was to be here not as a pupil, or even as Head Girl, but as a Mistress. Three years had passed since then, and now she was here. A one-year trial, and her plans appeared to be heading to fruition.
The headmistress, Mrs Grainger, had been a constant presence in her memories. She was only a couple of years from retirement now, but remained formidable. Her sign-off on a successful one-year probationary report would seal the deal. After all the hard work, Sophie’s fate lay in a simple action of the Headmistress’s right hand.
A mere formality, she thought, and until a week ago, that was true. Then, out of the blue, a shadow beset her path. A deception she believed long forgotten, resurfacing at the worst possible moment. Something, heaven knows what, had tipped off the headmistress. When challenged again, three years after the fact, she had dropped her guard.
She had lied as Head Girl, much to her shame, but now, as a young teacher, she finally confessed the truth. Yes, she had participated in planning a forbidden sixth-form party and had smuggled alcohol onto school grounds. Foreseeing the possible consequences, a lone tear traced across her cheek, and her voice wavered. She was so very sorry for her dishonesty she assured the headmistress.
Deep down, Sophie wondered if Mrs Grainger had always known? If not for certain, she must at least have suspected. A breach of trust was beyond anything she could forgive. To dismiss a barefaced lie, to sweep it under the carpet, was out of the question. Now, Sophie’s lifelong plans hinged on a doubtful probationary sign-off.
Since leaving Saint Dominic’s, Sophie had blossomed into an exceptional and elegant young woman. She looked back on those halcyon days of youth, days of assured progression from year group to year group. But her next progression, sought after for so long, was far from assured.
Saint Dominic’s dreamy wood-panelled corridors and immaculate grounds had always enchanted her imagination. She could still remember arriving in prep-school; her short pigtails swinging, and her school blazer feeling a little too big. To her, the austere traditions were the epitome of perfect schooldays. She loved the routine of morning chapel; the metallic call of the bell. The teachers, how tall and elegant they had seemed back then, in their flowing academic gowns.
True, the school embraced one or two strict, old-fashioned traditions that she preferred not to dwell upon.
Back then, her cousins and family-friends seemed to think her posh boarding school was like the Beano comic, with a whacking at the end of every day. They never understood that the headmistress’s cane was, by definition, a deterrent. Many girls, Sophie included, passed through school and never experienced its cruel bite.
Those shy and awkward schooldays were far behind her now, and she felt divine in her collection of formal skirt-suits for which she had saved so hard. Kind and approachable, acknowledging every “Good morning, Miss” from the girls and, as the spring rolled into summer, she basked in the warm sandstone glow of Chapel and Mainschool.
Attached to Tudor House, Sophie’s day had been a real buzz. Organising the girls for their team events; sometimes encouraging, sometimes commiserating. Competition between the houses was good-natured but keen. She threw herself into the mix and, as per tradition, she too sported the house colours.
She felt rather underdressed at first, mingling with the affluent parents. She guessed that any of their linen suits or designer summer dresses would have cost her a month’s salary. But, with a tingle of relish, she realised her outfit was gathering more than its fair share of attention. A pleated sky-blue tennis skirt and white polo shirt, beginning to cling in the summer heat. Its taut fabric emphasised the blossoming swell of her full breasts. Several fathers, their eyes wandering, received stern frowns from their exasperated wives.
Today, her favourite of the school calendar, should have been a defining moment for Sophie; supporting the House, cheering on the girls. It was exactly where she had always wanted to be. Plus, it looked like Tudor House had a great chance of coming out on top this year.
The background noise soon faded as the girls made their way to the changing rooms. Sophie stepped outside the refreshment tent into the quiet shade. She was enjoying her recollections and wanted to move away from the grown-up chatter.
The summer of ‘88 was the year of the infamous senior common room party. It was an event now etched into Saint Dominic’s folklore. The finale included tipsy revelry and the egging of the PE Mistress’s car. The entire school was abuzz, and the fallout had rumbled for days. That was the length of time it took Mrs Grainger to unmask the prime ringleaders.
When summoned to her study, they faced an unenviable choice. Would they opt for a week’s suspension? Or, choose a far swifter resolution, courtesy of her ferocious crook-handled cane?
Speculation abounded, but with A-Levels looming, their choice was stark. Six strokes each, it became known, a rarity for any senior girl. Four doleful sixth-formers, two of them were prefects, trooped from Mrs Grainger’s study that day. They made their choice and accepted the old-fashioned consequence.
Sophie too had come under suspicion, but was resolute in her denials and stuck to her story. A certain rapport between Headmistress and Head Girl may have helped. Meanwhile, her friends had not been so fortunate. Their nervousness under Mrs Grainger’s no-nonsense questioning had betrayed them.
Even so, Sophie’s mere presence at the party earned her a Saturday detention. Two-hundred and fifty lines was a childish and humiliating imposition for a senior. But, able to sit in comfort upon the classroom seat, she knew she had dodged a far worse fate.
There were storybooks she loved back then, filled with tales of japes and mischief. Old-fashioned schooldays – where the threat of discipline was far more acute. Saint Dominic’s use of corporal punishment was rather sparing in comparison. Yet, in her imagination, it held an irresistible fascination. Like a danger: no entry sign that you know to avoid, yet can’t resist taking a peek.
Sophie could remember conjuring her own private fantasies, filling in every last detail. Escapades of derring-do where she, the heroine, often came within a whisker of the plimsoll or cane. To feel the thrill of terrible anticipation, but to know that a last-minute reprieve would save her, was the privilege of imagination.
The summer party incident was her closest ever brush with real corporal punishment. She had sidestepped it, but not with a meritorious plot twist like her private fantasies. Her escape had been through plain, shamefaced dishonesty.
Head Girl was an honour, and she still carried the guilt of pulling the wool over Mrs Grainger’s eyes. But whenever the memory haunted her, she thought again of the indignity. Of reporting to Mrs Grainger’s study at eighteen years of age. Of standing beside the low wooden stool, skirt raised, exposing her modest navy-blue gym knickers. The terrible trepidation of placing both palms flat on the seat. The embarrassment of the Headmistress’s incisive scolding. Finally, hearing her notorious mantra, “If your hands leave the seat, you’ve earned a repeat.”
If it had come to it, Sophie imagined pressing her fingers hard against that low wooden stool. Like others before her, praying for her hands to stick like glue. Legend had it that a lenient two or three strokes could sometimes become a full sixer. Such was the price for any girl who was unable to hold the position.
Then, finally, would come the dreaded whooshes of air and piercing cracks. Six scalding lines of fire seared across her tender young bottom.
No, she knew it had been her only choice. But what seemed a merciful escape back then had come back to bite her with a vengeance. Without a sign-off on her full-time appointment, she would see her hopes dashed.
Act 2 – Reprieve
In the shade beside the refreshment tent, Sophie gazed back across the playing fields. They lay flat at first, then rolled down to an ornate sandstone retaining wall. There, trim flower beds edged the rear corner of Mainschool. There would be other opportunities, and other schools, she supposed, although nowhere else held the resonance of Saint Dominic’s cherished memories.
“Miss Heaton.”
The unexpected voice behind her left shoulder jolted Sophie from a dreamlike reverie.
“I wanted to catch you before prize-giving,” the headmistress said. “We’ve had our differences, but this afternoon has given me rather a dilemma. Mr Jones from the governors made a suggestion that we should discuss.”
Mrs Grainger had kept her voice low. Not wanting to be overheard, Sophie wondered? The thought piqued her curiosity.
“You disappointed me Sophie, I won’t deny it. You might feel I disappointed you too, over your teaching prospects here at Saint Dominic’s? But all day I’ve heard nothing but glowing feedback from parents and colleagues. You may have done us proud, in spite of a stumble.”
“I know I let you down in sixth-form and I felt ashamed,” Sophie admitted. “All I can do is apologise, but I’ve tried my best, Mrs Grainger.”
Could she begin to take hope? It seemed to be the direction their conversation was heading.
“Mr Jones suggested we negotiate a way to renew your probationary period; find a way to give a promising new teacher some breathing space to prove herself. Within certain parameters, that’s something I may be able to concede.”
It was a dent to Sophie’s pride, but an extension was a trivial setback against the relief of being given a second chance. She found it hard to contain her delight.
“We can’t discuss it here though.” Mrs Grainger inclined her head at the cream canvas of the refreshment tent. “Wait outside my study. Give me a few minutes to make my excuses down here.”
It was as if a weight had been lifted from Sophie’s shoulders, and she stepped into the sunlight, making her lonely way across the playing field.
For a moment, she found herself unnerved by a sense of déjà-vu. She glanced down at her trainers, tennis skirt and polo shirt. The sight gave her a sense that the clock had rolled back three years. Her regular, business-like attire transformed into the PE kit she had once worn as a schoolgirl.
Her heartbeat quickened, an intangible doubt beginning to play on her mind. Déjà-vu was always a little unnerving, she told herself, but the feeling proved hard to shake.
Stepping back into school, the warm sunlight gave way to cool shade. Smells of summer grass submitted to the familiar, if unaccountable, musk of the old school.
She saw not a soul on the staircase and first-floor corridor. It was strange, but in the silence, those words, “wait outside my study”, seemed to echo in Sophie’s mind. They conveyed menace, like a sound effect from a corny movie flashback.
This must have been what it was like for her friends only a few years before. How awful it must have been, summoned to await their fate in this cool, quiet corridor.
Breathless, feeling the hairs prickle on the back of her neck, she allowed her mind to drift back into one of her winsome schoolgirl daydreams.
She had always felt there must be a forbidden excitement in the aura of notoriety. For a moment she pictured herself as a naughty girl from a storybook. Taking her time, walking slowly, prolonging the wait. But ahead, the fate that awaited her behind that study door was drawing ever closer.
Even now, twenty-two years old, she reigned in her imagination with a nervous frown. Her friends’ descriptions, facing this for real, still sent shivers down her spine.
Three years had passed since she had been a pupil of Saint Dominic’s. Mrs Grainger might subject her to another ear-bashing, which was bad enough, but at least there was comfort in the certainty of being well beyond the days of any physical discipline. Still, the accounts of her four friends, Jennifer, Suzy, Kate, and Naomi, rang vivid in her memory.
Stoicism was the norm, and they all displayed the usual senior common room bravado. Despite this, Sophie noticed their discreet winces as they tried to sit down, and the small attentions they took to ensure their skirt hemlines stayed in place. Jennifer, one of her best friends, confessed more when they were alone. The striped marks traversing her bottom were still discernible almost a week later.
Sophie felt a growing unease, doubts beginning to enter her mind. She thought back again to those clichéd words.
“Wait outside my study.”
As hard as she tried, it was impossible to push the thoughts from her mind. Like countless miscreants before her, she took a seat on the ornate wooden bench. Cold and hard, like those in the school chapel, facing Mrs Grainger’s imposing door.
Act 3 – Proposal
Sophie heard Mrs Grainger before she saw her. A distinctive rap of patent leather court shoes on polished parquet flooring. By instinct Sophie stood, smoothing down her short, pleated mini-skirt. Seated on the low wooden bench, it was beginning to ride up at the front of her thighs.
“Right,” Mrs Grainger declared. Her gentle demeanour from the refreshment tent was now restored to a determined tone. “I have no doubt we can resolve this matter, and then I must get back to the parents.”
She spoke while stepping into the office, inviting Sophie to follow with a casual gesture of her arm. The heavy door on its ageing spring-closer creaked, and then shut with a decisive click. Instead of taking her usual seat, Mrs Grainger leaned back against the front edge of her desk.
Sophie waited, feeling awkward, trying not to fidget with the hem of her tennis skirt. Once again, she felt that schoolgirl déjà-vu.
Mrs Grainger began her speech in the headmisstressly tone that Sophie remembered so well.
“I was once told that whilst some people bear a grudge, I actually cherish a grudge. A joke, I suppose, but it resonated because I must confess, it conveys an element of truth. When Mr Jones buttonholed me earlier, neither of us want to lose you Sophie, I knew he was trying to help me save face. Helping me to let go of a grudge, so that we have a means of retaining you on the staff. That’s how he came to his notion of granting you a second probationary period.”
“It may seem to be a reasonable way forward,” Mrs Grainger continued. “It touches upon the truth, but the fact of the matter is that I enjoy a close-trust relationship with all my teaching staff. If you and I meet in future, I do not wish to remember you as the Head Girl who once deceived me. You lied to my face, if we’re being blunt, and hence my dilemma. That’s where his suggestion, for all its wisdom, falls just a little short.”
Having allowed herself to take hope, Sophie was beginning to get a sinking feeling.
“But Mrs Grainger,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “From what you told me outside, you led me to think we could work this out. I mean, that’s what you said, isn’t it?”
Mrs Grainger stared back, studying her evident lack of comprehension. It was as if she were weighing up Sophie’s reaction, deciding if this was mere innocence, or a deliberate tactic of procrastination.
“Sophie, there are times in life where we’d like to turn back the clock. I’m sure you’ve felt that. To put right a mistake, or to dodge a moment of social embarrassment? We often can’t do that, of course. But if our relationship is to continue, then I’m afraid we must turn back the proverbial clock. What I’m saying to you, Sophie, is that you and I have unfinished business.”
The calmness of Mrs Grainger’s words belied the fearful weight of their implication. Sophie felt a warm prickle of perspiration in her armpits and around the small of her back. As understanding dawned, a welling sense of panic dried her mouth and sparked a tremble in her knees.
“Oh- now Mrs Grainger, you can’t mean... you can’t expect me to...”.
But her words faltered, and she left the sentence trailing. Clasping a hand across her mouth, she began shaking her head in denial and sheer disbelief.
“If that’s how you feel, I’ll be sorry to lose you from the teaching staff. But this is not a negotiation. Those are the conditions I must insist upon before I renew your probationary period. I’m offering you one final chance, Sophie. It’s time you faced up to the consequences of a past mistake.”
Sophie could hear a tremor in her voice, like she was listening to herself on a recording. She pleaded, knowing it was futile. “But I’m not a schoolgirl, Mrs Grainger. I’m twenty-two years old.”
She found it hard to look the headmistress in the eye, and her gaze flitted around the room. These were glances that fell at random. First upon the bay window, then the bookcase, and then a pair of drab green filing cabinets. But a certain inevitability drew her attention to the corner coat-stand. Black wrought iron, scrolling curves to its feet and upper branches. Beside it was a low wooden stool.
A flowing academic gown obscured much of the stand itself, but there was one thing it could not conceal. The burnished, dark-caramel hue of Mrs Grainger’s cane was unmistakable. It hung from a peg by the perfectly formed curve of its handle, only partly concealed amongst the folds of black cloth.
Sophie had the urge to run. She was a grown woman, she reminded herself. Nothing could prevent her from walking away. But Mrs Grainger had played her hand well. Now that her cards were on the table, Sophie knew she had no choice but to fold. Like a pledge, who must submit to a hazing ritual before gaining entry into an exclusive club, she began to see the calculated certainty of her fate.
“Please, Mrs Grainger,” she stammered, “not this. Please? There must be another way?”
The slow shake of Mrs Grainger’s head offered no comfort or solace.
“But if we...” Sophie hesitated, unable to speak the actual words. “If we do, turn back the clock, please will you promise me that you’ll wipe the slate clean?”
For the briefest moment, Sophie detected a lapse in Mrs Grainger’s stony poker-face. A wry smile of victory at the final acquiescence of an opponent.
“Exactly Sophie. When you let me down, you let yourself down too, and the time has come to make amends. I know you’re nervous, and you should be. But I know you well enough to see you are not proud of your behaviour back then. Over the years, it might even have played on your mind? Well, this is your chance to put things right.”
Act 4 – Ritual
The culmination of this long-established ritual was everything Sophie had dreaded. Cold, detached and, unlike her youthful daydreams, there would be no last-minute reprieve. Everything was playing out as her old friend, Jennifer, had described.
Following Mrs Grainger’s instructions, she brought the stool to the middle of the room. Sturdy and very old, it may have once been a farmhouse milking stool, she thought. Only around eighteen inches tall, it was far heavier than it looked.
“Consider this a formal punishment, Heaton. I make no concession for your age, or your current position within the school. Do not try my patience. I expect you to follow my instructions to the letter.”
Hearing the formality of the Headmistress’s tone, Sophie made up her mind to respond in kind.
“Yes Miss. I understand.”
Sophie had not addressed anyone as “Miss” since her schooldays. But here, in the Headmistress’s study, knowing what was about to happen, it felt like her only option.
“It’s six strokes for you, Heaton. Like your friends received three years ago. Like you should have received alongside them. If you’d told the truth back then, you wouldn’t be in this undignified position right now.”
Mrs Grainger paused, as if for effect, and pointed her index finger towards the coat stand. Sophie cringed as she heard the fateful words.
“Fetch me the cane, Heaton.”
As she picked it up, the whippy rod felt polished and hard to the touch of her trembling fingers. Feint streaks and mottled spots marked its almost flawless length. Sophie had never handled a school cane in her life, nor even seen one so close. It flexed under its own weight, emphasising the heft of this fearsome instrument. She held it near the centre, hesitant to present it to Mrs Grainger.
In contrast, the experienced Headmistress took it with easy confidence. Her right hand slid to its crook handle and she smoothed her left hand along its length. A gentle flex, a slight repositioning of her right hand, and another final flex. It reminded Sophie of a tennis player, making imperceptible adjustments to their strings.
Raising her right arm, Mrs Grainger took a high, arcing swing downwards. The unmistakable heavy swoosh instilled fresh terror in Sophie’s mind. She watched, mesmerised, unable to take her eyes away as the tip of the springy rattan reverberated to a halt.
“Bend over,” Mrs Grainger demanded, tapping the cane’s tip upon the stool. “Legs straight, palms flat. Your friends may have enlightened you to my rule on keeping still? ‘If your hands leave the seat, you’ve earned a repeat.’ I will count out the strokes of your punishment. If you deviate from the position, if you disobey me, I will repeat the previous stroke.”
Her friends had told her, and in every grim detail. Jennifer and Naomi stayed over at her family home for the June Exeat weekend. From their descriptions, Sophie knew exactly how close she was to her first ever taste of the cane. Unlike several of her peers, she’d escaped it throughout her schooldays. At her current age, this sternest of all disciplinary measures should have been left far behind her. Now, she lamented how a single, historic indiscretion had finally changed all that.
The stool was low, about knee-height. To lay her hands flat in a position she could maintain meant shuffling her feet back a few inches.
“Feet six inches apart, and don’t you dare move,” came the uncompromising command.
Mrs Grainger, unselfconscious, slid her fingers under the hem of the short tennis skirt. Polished fingernails brushed against Sophie’s thighs and bottom as the fabric was raised and folded back. The roughly finished underside of its pencil-thin pleats lay low upon her back, a sliver of bare skin now visible above her panties’ lace-edged waistband.
With the seat of her almost sheer underwear exposed, the preparations were complete.
“Did you think you were being clever? A sixth-former getting one over on the Headmistress. Dodging a bullet?” Mrs Grainger asked, and as she spoke she brought the cane to rest against Sophie’s bottom. Straight and level, it traced the centre-line of its target, like an equator across a pair of fleshy globes. Low upon her cheeks, the cane bisected the leg elastic of her high-cut briefs.
“Well, the truth has a way of catching up with us, Heaton, as you are about to discover.”
Sophie winced at every aiming tap, trying to brace herself for the coming impact. Yet she knew that nothing could prepare her for the burning cuts Jennifer and Naomi had described to her all those years ago.
Mrs Grainger’s technique displayed a precision borne of experience. Sophie felt the cane’s pressure increase, but only for a second. In that moment it incised a V channel across her cheeks, before a rapid backswing drew it away. Turning her shoulder, Mrs Grainger unleashed the coiled power of elbow and wrist. With stunning force she delivered an almighty thwack across Sophie’s firm, rounded behind.
There was a brief moment of silence as Sophie’s mouth fell open and her back arched in a reflexive action. That initial shock of impact soon erupted into a burning sting. As it penetrated deep into both her cheeks, she exhaled in a gasp of anguished surprise. Fighting the urge to grab her bottom, her breath quickening, Sophie knew it would only get worse.
“That’s one, Heaton,” came Mrs Grainger’s quite unnecessary announcement. There was a satisfied relish to her words. A reminder: this was only the beginning.
There was no time to regain composure before the tap-tap-tap of Mrs Grainger’s aim. Even these light swats tormented Sophie’s blazing rear. And then, the same rapid backswing, and a piercing crack. This time the stroke landed an inch lower, straight into the crease between her bottom and thighs.
It was too much, and as Sophie blurted out a yelp, her knees flexed. She took half a step forward to avoid losing her balance altogether. The sting that surged through her bottom and upper thighs was incredible. It took all her effort to maintain hand contact with the stool, and she could feel the tears welling in her eyes.
She straightened her knees, shifting back into position as fast as possible. The movement had already caused her short tennis skirt to flap down back across her bottom. The pleated fabric should have made a light, innocuous contact, not even a tickle. Yet, in her heightened state, it sparked a fresh tingle through her hot, smarting cheeks.
“What did I tell you, Heaton?” Mrs Grainger demanded. “My instructions were very specific.”
“I know you told me to keep still, Miss. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. It hurts so much!”
“I’m well aware it hurts. I hardly think it would be an effective punishment otherwise. But when I give instructions, I expect them to be obeyed. Stand up right now and take off your skirt. If you can’t keep still, it will have to come off.”
The skirt was new, and it wasn’t easy to unfasten the snug side-button with shaky fingers. Sophie’s eyes were warming and beginning to mist over. Blinking hard released a pair of tears, and they dribbled in laborious tandem down each side of her nose.
When she dropped her folded skirt beside the stool, she felt even more vulnerable. The high-legged briefs offered so little coverage to protect her modesty. She remembered her reflection in the bedroom mirror as she had dressed that morning. Her panties were so gossamer-thin that they were unable to even conceal the trim dark triangle of her pubic-hair, let alone protect her bottom from this excruciating correction.
Blushing even more, mortified by the humiliating exposure, she awaited Mrs Grainger’s command.
“Back into position, Heaton, and we’ll try that second stroke again.”
Sophie stared back at her, aghast, eyes wide and imploring. “No, Miss, please!”
“I warned you not to move,” the staunch headmistress declared, “and I explained the consequences. Get back into your position.”
There was an impatience in Mrs Grainger’s tone that should have been a warning to Sophie. She should have known better, but the throbbing pain and impotent frustration clouded her judgement.
“But Miss, I only stood up because you told me to take off my skirt. I did exactly what you said. It just isn’t fair!”
Mrs Grainger glared back, infuriated by the delay. “I’ll decide what’s fair, not you. And furthermore, I do not tolerate impertinent back-chat. We will repeat the second stroke, and I will add an extra stroke to the end of your punishment. You are going to learn to respect my authority.”
Sophie had already half opened her mouth to continue the protest. It was the swell of smouldering pain, extending the full width of her bottom, that persuaded her to comply. Turning back to the stool, she re-assumed the position... in silence.
But the silence didn’t last. It was terminated a second later by another pained squeal. Mrs Grainger’s re-designated second stroke landed with yet another blistering thwack.
“That,” Mrs Grainger declared, “will count as number two.”
“Yes Miss,” came Sophie’s tearful acknowledgement.
The headmistress was notorious for tight clusters of stripes across the lower curves of girls’ bottoms. The effects of her powerful right arm and unerring accuracy were known to last for several days. You could witness the manoeuvres of painful delicacy whenever recipients sat down.
The next three strokes met Sophie’s bottom according to this long-proven strategy. The younger woman’s anguished howls of protest were a more than ample testament to their efficacy. Each one ignited a fresh wave of smarting pain, surging and amplifying with every stroke.
Mrs Grainger continued to announce the count, her voice calm. There was no emotion or sympathy, but on reaching five she paused to deliver further scolding.
“And that, Heaton, will count as number five. If you had followed my instructions, if you had not answered back, your punishment would now be over.” The clockwork-precision of the continuing tap-tap-tap acted as grim reinforcement of these words. “But since you did not listen, you have two more to come.”
Sophie winced at the prospect, unable to find any words for a reply. Upon reflection, she decided that silent obedience was doubtless the best response.
“Not much fun now, is it? Being caught out. Trying to buck the system. Honesty, Heaton, is always the best policy.”
The headmistress was not vindictive, but Mrs Grainger could not dismiss her disappointment. Sophie’s deception in the upper-sixth was a blow to an otherwise unblemished academic record. But, even more, it was the question of how many others had known of her lie. In Mrs Grainger’s mind, Sophie’s friends could have been smirking behind her back. That was the thing which angered her. More than anything else, it was the impetus for this unorthodox dénouement.
A livid group of stripes, two inches wide, enveloped the plump swell of Sophie’s derrière. Six angry welts scored across her beautiful bottom. With two more still to go, it would be a more than adequate requital of the former Head Girl’s breach of trust.
Her aim flawless, Mrs Grainger landed the final two strokes across the top and bottom edges of this red band. With all the force she could muster, she swept the cane to its target. Her heavy oak door and double-glazed windows endeavoured to contain Sophie’s cries.
Satisfied, the Headmistress waited as a final howl of protest dissolved into sniffles. While she watched, another lone tear dripped onto the wooden stool from the tip of Sophie’s nose. She assessed her handiwork like an artist before instructing Sophie to stand.
Eight raised weals formed a parallel corrugation across Sophie’s lower cheeks. They lay in an oasis of redness, a stark contrast to the light tan of her thighs.
“Take the cane, Heaton, and the stool. Return them to their places.”
With tearful acknowledgement, Sophie obeyed. There was a pink flush to her face and a glossy sheen below her eyes where the tears had moistened her cheeks.
“I hope that you will reflect long and hard on this punishment, Heaton. Integrity and honesty are paramount qualities. Be in no doubt that your bottom is going to be very sore for a long time, and that discomfort should act as a lasting reminder.”
Mrs Grainger appeared mollified, finally offering a half-smile.
“I gave you my promise earlier. I will indeed authorise the renewal of your probationary period in our English Department. But, ensure that you never, ever, let me down again.”
“Yes, Miss, I promise. Thank-you, Miss .”
In a final, more kindly tone, Mrs Grainger concluded. “Take a few moments to compose yourself. For the sake of discretion, it’s best that we don’t return downstairs together. I will see you, three o’clock... for prize-giving.”
Epilogue
Finally alone, Sophie reached for her bottom with almost infinite care. Her cheeks throbbed, and as she eased her hands under the waistband of her panties, the ridged, reddened band of skin revealed itself – burning hot to her fingertips. In time, she began to rub and massage deeper, though it brought minimal relief from the smarting sting.
She knew she was unlikely to meet anyone in the corridor, but dried her tears as best she could on the inside of her skirt. It would do until she could make a dash for the staff toilets and splash some cold water on her face to calm her blushing cheeks.
With her composure returning, her thoughts drifted back to Jennifer and Naomi. Their descriptions had been precise, at least of the pain and embarrassment. But they had failed to express the overwhelming presence of Mrs Grainger. Stern, accepting no nonsense, commanding immediate respect with a word or glance.
As soon as she accepted Mrs Grainger’s ultimatum, Sophie knew she was under her absolute control. Whether stripping to her panties or bending for the cane, refusal had never felt like an option. Such was the fearsome authority she exuded as Headmistress.
Stepping back into her tennis skirt, Sophie was unable to resist a final glance towards the coat stand.
The crook-handled cane hung where she left it. It was an instrument of such devilish simplicity, so single-minded of purpose. It waited once again, indifferent to the devastation wreaked upon her suffering buttocks.
Deep down, had she always harboured a perverse desire to experience its sting? She thought not, yet could feel no resentment towards Mrs Grainger. If anything, it may have been a catharsis. A relief from regretful guilt, carried in secret over the years.
She left the office with a single, determined wish upon her mind. That her next probationary report would call for no similar recourse. Taking care, in case an errant gust of wind caught her short skirt, Sophie returned to the playing fields.
She could picture the raw, glowing red tramlines traced across her rear. With a wince she imagined the embarrassment if a colleague or parent should ever find out about this afternoon’s encounter. To risk flashing even the briefest of glimpses did not bear thinking about.
Sophie was not surprised to find herself on the centre front-row seat for prize-giving. It had a certain inevitability after the events of her day so far. She could feel Mrs Grainger’s eyes upon her when she invited the assembly to take their seats.
Despite her best efforts, Sophie was unable to stifle a pained grimace as she sat down. The sensation of sitting on a pin cushion sang through her bottom; pulsing, warming; prickling. A wry smile from Mrs Grainger met her blushes as she tried her best not to squirm upon the moulded plastic chair. At any rate, she told herself, the assurance of being back at Saint Dominic’s next year offered some comfort.
And... her schoolgirl daydreams, which had always fallen short of an ending, finally had a real conclusion…