by Frank Martinet
The board debated long into the night. Remington was for expulsion. "Zero tolerance for drugs," he said. "Even in cupcakes."
"We can't expel thirteen girls," argued Mark Porter, the headmaster. "That's nearly twelve percent of the senior class!"
"But we can't not punish them," said Sylvia Crane. "What they did was blatantly against everything Bradshaw represents."
"I'm not saying they shouldn't be punished, just that expulsion is the nuclear option. The girls have apologized and promised it won't happen again. They are contrite."
Remington shook his head. "The punishment must be something that will send a message to the rest of the students. What are you going to do, make them write lines? 'I shan't bring pot cupcakes to school.' Perhaps a punitive essay? Or detention? Bah!"
"There is another option," said a quiet voice. Everyone stared at the elderly figure of Abigail Nance. She folded the long narrow fingers of each hand into the other. After a moment she added, "I believe that corporal punishment is still technically on the books."
"What, the cane?" gasped Sylvia. "I thought that was banned decades ago."
Porter shook his head. "No, Abigail is correct. It was never formally banned. It just fell into disuse."
"So it's legal?" Remington scratched his beard thoughtfully. "Not a bad idea, that. It would have to be a good dose, though. Not a mere tickle."
Sylvia frowned. "What's that mean? Six of the best?"
The man roared with laughter. "Six! Ha, that's child's play. These are senior girls. They're nearly all grown up, at least physically. I'd say two dozen at minimum."
"Two dozen!"
"That seems excessive," said the headmaster.
"There's historical precedent," said Abigail. "Back in the day two or even three dozen were administered in severe cases. Rare, but not unknown."
"How do you know that?" Sylvia laughed. "I suppose you were there?"
Abigail's watery blue eyes were suddenly as fierce as sapphires. "As a matter of fact, I was. On the receiving end. Eighteen of the best across my bared buttocks - fully deserved for the crime of striking another pupil with my violin bow. Hurt like living hell, I'll grant you, but it turned my life around."
"Eighteen!"
"Bare?" Remington was suddenly intrigued. "Now that would get the school's attention!"
"I'd forgotten you attended Bradshaw yourself," said Porter.
"It wasn't recent," said the old woman with a warm smile. "I forget it myself sometimes. But not that caning. That remains etched in my very soul."
"In blood, I should think. Eighteen strokes!" He shook his head. "I wouldn't even know how to administer such a punishment."
"You can be trained. Or we can bring in an outside expert."
"We're trying to avoid publicity here," said Sylvia. "I'd prefer we keep this within Bradshaw."
"That's a good point, Sylvia. I'm not opposed to learning, but who would train me?"
Abigail smiled.
The lessons took place the next evening at Abigail's elegant home. Mark arrived at six, as nervous as a boy visiting a cathouse for the first time. He had no idea what the woman had in mind. Just how did one learn to cane? He supposed she'd have him thrash a pillow or something.
She greeted him warmly, and she looked quite fashionable in long white slacks and a tailored white jacket. She seemed smaller and it wasn't until she explained she was wearing comfortable gym slippers instead of her usual heels that he realized she'd lost a few inches. Though not of extraordinary height, she had always seemed tall.
Abigail led him into the den where she'd set out a series of long brown canes on table. Curious, Porter inspected them. They were various sizes and though the differences appeared minor, he quickly realized that even a few inches in length added considerably to the effectiveness of the rod. Swishing them through the air he could hear the change in the whirring sound. Some of the canes were stiffer, some thinner and whippier.
For the next thirty minutes, Abigail gave him tips on how to cane. She showed him where to place his feet and how to swing the rod with his arm unbent in a great arc.
"You don't need to worry about trying to cane with force," she explained. "Let the rod do the work. If you try to swing hard, you'll just miss your target. Instead, focus on consistency. A smooth stroke. You can add a little extra verve at the end with a flick of your wrist."
She demonstrated. On a chair with a medium-high back, she'd fastened a cushion. It was approximately the size of a schoolgirl's buttocks and the height was just where that bum would be with a girl bent over. As he watched, she delivered a quick lively blow that struck right in the center of the cushion. Even at her age she moved with fluidity and grace, and the young headmaster felt his belly squirm uncomfortably at the thought of a stroke like that cutting his own rump.
"I'm curious, Abigail, if you don't mind my asking, how you know so much about this side of the cane? You mentioned receiving it in school, but you clearly know how to wield the rod as well."
The old woman smiled. "You know that I taught at Bradshaw for nine years before I married."
"Of course. That's part of why you're on the board."
"Back in those days, caning was not just restricted to headmasters."
"You mean you-"
The gray head nodded sagely. "Classroom canings were routine. I gave three or so per day, on average. It was usually just a few strokes, nothing vicious or remarkable. The Head always gave at least six, so girls were much more likely to prefer it from me, though I had more than a few tell me my four were comparable to old Grinberg's six."
"Judging from that poor cushion, I can believe that!"
Mark practiced, swishing the rod into the cushion. His first efforts were pathetic and he blushed, embarrassed at being shown up by a frail elderly lady, but she never mocked him and simply encouraged the things he was doing right and corrected his mistakes in form. Soon, after twenty minutes of sweaty effort, he'd gotten the hang of it. His strokes were sharp and loud, and consistently right where she told him to strike, and he'd mastered all of the different canes as well.
"I avoid the upper buttocks, if possible. The flesh there is thin and there's always the risk of hitting high and striking the back. You're much better off going for center mass. If you can, spread the strokes around. Especially with eighteen to administer, you don't want to overlap too many strokes or you may break the skin. The goal, of course, is to impart strict pain, not wound."
The woman pointed to the base of the cushion. "Down here is the sulcus, the crease between buttock and thigh. That's the ideal target, because the flesh there is incredibly sensitive yet sturdy. And if you miss high or low, there's no risk of injury as you'll strike the under-bum or thigh."
When Mark hit ten of ten of the targets she indicated, Abigail pronounced him trained. "I believe you're qualified. You don't have the expertise that comes with experience, of course, but that you can only get with practice. There's only one test remaining."
"What's that?" Mark Porter flexed a cane, feeling strong and authoritative.
"Simple. This cushion is a simulation. It's not bad for training, but striking real buttocks is a different experience. There are many subtleties you must master. The movement of the target, for instance. It's odd, but girls don't like to stay still for the cane! There are also tears and pleas and cries of pain which can be off-putting if you're not prepared for it. Therefore, it is essential that your training include some real bottoms."
For a terrible moment Mark had the uncomfortable feeling that the old woman was going to offer herself as a target - but she pressed a button on the wall and a moment later two young woman in Bradshaw uniforms appeared at the entrance to the den. He did not recognize either, but they were young women of eighteen or nineteen. Neither was smiling, but both were quite pretty. The elder was blond and tall for her age, and as slim as a stick. The younger had dark hair and wide eyes.
"My granddaughters, Emily and Karen. Both attend Bradshaw, as you can see. Girls, introduce yourselves to Headmaster Porter."
The girls each curtseyed and said her name. Emily was the older blond, the pale skin of her cheeks flushed with pink as she blushed.
"These two minxes are frequently naughty and in this household, that earns them the cane, doesn't it, ladies?"
"Yes, Grandmother," both girls intoned together.
"They haven't done anything today that merits correction - at least that I know about - but they've agreed to volunteer for this in exchange for a let-off of a future beating of their choosing. Correct, girls?"
Both nodded, Emily gazing at Mark shyly. She was very pretty with lovely blue eyes and a striking figure. He was astonished that the girls would volunteer for a painful caning.
"I'm to cane them?" he asked Abigail nervously. "That doesn't seem very fair."
"It's okay, sir," said Emily. "Grandmother explained and we agreed."
"Don't worry, Mark. They're strong girls and they've been caned often. This is nothing foreign for them. This will be a real caning, girls. Twelve hard strokes each. Mr. Porter is new to caning as you know, so if a stroke is weak or off-mark, you be sure to tell him and he'll repeat it."
"Yes, Grandmother."
"Now, you may disrobe."
Abigail faced Porter. "At school, of course, only bottoms need to be bared, but in this household, canings for more severe offenses are fully nude. For your training, I believe it's good for you to become comfortable with the nudity."
It was indeed a wise decision, Mark reflected, for as he watched the two young ladies remove their clothing he was discombobulated for a moment. He had to work to maintain a professional attitude. Both of the girls were lovely. One year younger than Emily, Karen was slightly less developed, with shallow breasts and narrow hips, while Emily was more adult with good-sized tits the size of medium apples. Ironically, with her blond hair her bush looked less prominent than her dark-haired sister's making her look younger in that area.
Both blushed as they stripped, but were so well-trained that neither made any attempt to cover themselves or hide their charms from his view. Abigail insisted the girls rotate to show him everything, explaining that the humiliation of exposure was part of the punishment experience. She showed him the two different bottoms, one fuller than the other, but both attractively round and firm.
"You've got more area to work on with Emily," she said, pointing one bony finger at her eldest granddaughter's wider bum. "You'll have to be more accurate when you cane Karen as her bottom is quite small. It's still as cute as a peach, though," she added, giving the younger girl's bottom a gentle pat with her hand.
Together, the two selected the canes Mark would use. For Karen, he selected a cane similar to a traditional classroom rod: lean and sturdy, but only thirty inches long and not heavy. As Emily was one year older at nineteen, and Abigail wanted him to practice with the cane he'd use at school, it was decided to divide her punishment into two parts. For the first six he'd use the standard senior cane, a yard length of whippy rattan, and for the second half the lengthy reformatory rod - a full forty inches of tough hazel that was the implement he'd use for the thirteen bottoms on Saturday.
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.