by Stanlegh Meresith
1. Rachel Thomas. Friday 4pm
"What time are they due?" she asks.
"Six o'clock, Madam," I reply, head bowed and hands clasped before me, as required.
"You've prepared the dormitory?"
"I have, Madam."
"And the schoolroom?"
"Yes, Madam."
"And you've polished the canes?"
"Yes, Madam, and waxed the tawses as you suggested."
"Very well, Thomas, you may clear away the tea things."
"Thank you, Madam."
Looking up sufficiently to locate the tray on the small table beside the professor's desk, I walk over and lift it carefully.
"By the way, Thomas, your cap's on crooked again."
I freeze. "Yes, Madam."
"That's the fourth time today."
I suppress a dangerous smile. "Yes, Madam." The bloody thing's impossible to fix in my hair.
"For that, and your numerous failings this week, you will await me outside the punishment room at five-thirty."
"Yes, Madam." My stomach fizzes.
I turn and wobble my way to the door of her study on the unfeasibly high heels she insists I wear. Exiting, I clutch the tray to my hip with my right hand while reaching out to close the door with my left. The safety of the hall regained, I sigh heavily and totter across the parquet floor to the kitchen to deposit the tray and put the kettle on for my own cuppa.
Catching sight of myself in the mirror by the door, I stop and try to straighten the cap. It still won't sit right, so I give up and stand there, gazing at myself - the 44-year-old French maid! If only Susie could see me now, I think with a chuckle. While I'm enjoying my submissive fun in Cambridge, she's having a week in Paris.
I've been in this uniform ten hours a day since I arrived last Sunday. 'Serving hours', as the professor calls them, are seven till noon and two till seven. For lunch and dinner, I change into my 'civvies' and we eat and chat as if Thomas the slovenly maid never existed. Occasionally she'll ask sweetly after the state of my bottom (from my perspective, that is, for she's enjoyed her own whilst beating me), but mostly we talk about our lives and loves (singular in my case) and - perhaps most fondly on both our parts - about Verily.
Verily Markham, my old Headmistress, is the reason I've been enjoying these annual visits to the professor's since my early twenties. My last two years at Cropton Hall in '53-55 - Verily's first as Headmistress - were rewarding and painful in equal measure, for Verily was the wisest and fiercest of mentors. And she'd learned her craft, I later discovered, as a student under Professor Grice. Verily's plying her trade at a school in Somerset now, having come out of retirement to help them out as a Housemistress.
The professor - I've always addressed her as 'Professor' (when it isn't 'Madam' or 'Miss' or 'Your Ladyship', depending on the role-play) - is a remarkably fit septuagenarian historian, whose distinguished academic career has spanned nearly half a century. She retired from teaching in 1970 - eleven years ago now - but still publishes the occasional paper. Generations of Cambridge girls (along with some less talented, such as myself) have undergone her corrective instruction, guarding faithfully the secret of her private hobby so that no whiff of scandal has ever soured the air of her secluded house on the edge of the town.
I turn to examine my profile, taking pleasure in the slim figure I work hard to maintain both for Susie and my self-esteem, and of course for the professor (who's as thin as a rake these days, though her bearing remains as stately as ever). And then (for when can I ever resist?) I turn further to admire the effects of this morning's 'corrections'. I lost count well before lunchtime - paddle and tawse, standing, bending, lying prone - but the mottled purple marks give me all the measure I need. I caress myself and sigh.
Then, with a shiver, I remember five-thirty.
2. Martha Jackson. Friday 4.15pm
We meet at Liverpool Street Station. Although we spoke on the phone last month, I haven't seen her since I left school two summers ago (she was a year behind me), and I'm curious to see if she's changed. She certainly sounded like the Charlie of old - honest, laconic, bright as a button. And the fact she's coming this weekend tells me she's still up for adventure. In fact, hearing her voice again, I wished I'd been in touch sooner, but I forgot everything to do with school in the rush of new experience when I started my degree course at Sussex.
It was Professor Grice herself who suggested I invite Charlie. Like me (and Rachel, years ago), she was recommended by 'Markie' (Verily Markham, our Housemistress at Chesterton Court, in Somerset), Professor Grice being the lodestone to which we're all attracted, like bees to our queen.
Although my two previous visits were intensely exciting (especially the first, when Rachel was there), I found it almost too much being the only 'bottom' last time, so I jumped at the chance to have a partner in punishment, and not just any partner - Charlie Preston, no less, the girl I spanked one stoned summer's day by a stream near school; the girl I got thrashed with my last day there.
I see her before she sees me, and a broad smile splits my face as the old affection comes flooding back. The first thing I notice as she threads her way through the jostling crowd is the spiky, cropped hair - it makes her even more beautiful than I remembered. It's also exactly how I've got mine, so it feels like a fresh connection after these twenty months, and calms any fears I've had that our paths might have diverged.
I wave. "Charlie!"
She spots me and approaches, looking away briefly as if she too has had her doubts, but then our eyes meet and we're in each other's faces, grinning like mischievous monkeys.
"Wow! Martha, you look fantastic!"
"You too."
We hug, and I take her hand. "Come on, it's platform seven."
The train's packed - Friday afternoon rush-hour. We end up facing each other by a window between carriages, our bags on the grubby floor at our feet as the north-east suburbs rattle by.
"Thanks for coming," I say, studying her face carefully. With the spiky hair and thinner cheeks, she looks less girlish, though her clear brown eyes haven't changed, twinkling as ever on the verge of laughter.
"Thanks for asking me," she replies evenly, her grin taking me right back to that summer at school. We hold each other's gaze, and I can tell she's remembering too. We burst out laughing.
"You haven't changed," I say.
"Oh, but I have!" she says. "I've changed a lot."
"I meant you're as sexy and beautiful as ever, Charlie."
She laughs. "And you're as shameless as ever," she says, blushing. "I love it! Do you remember the day we met? In the changing room? You were stark naked, with a towel over your shoulder. You'd been caned the day before and you strolled around with your stripes on show like it was nothing. I was so impressed."
"You were meant to be," I confessed. I changed the subject. "By the way, congratulations!"
"You mean Cambridge?"
I nod. "What changed your mind? The last I heard, you were set on doing English at Bristol."
"I was, but... actually, it was Markie. I had her for History in the upper-sixth and she was amazing."
"That doesn't surprise me."
Charlie sighed. "I miss her. She helped me so much with the entrance exam, and prepping me for the interview. I'm not sure - because we've never even met - but I think Professor Grice may have put in a good word for me as well, at Markie's request."
"Well, you deserve it, Charlie."
The train brakes sharply - approaching Royston - and I'm propelled forward. I could reach out and brace myself against the wall, but I let the motion carry me into her. Our breasts touch, and I smell the scent of her shampoo, her breath on my neck. As I right myself, our eyes meet and she smiles - coyly, but with a shimmer of interest. "So," I say, arching an eyebrow, "you miss her."
She laughs, blushing. "I do."
"Did she give you a going-away caning then?"
Momentarily shocked, she parries, "Like yours, you mean?"
I grin. On my last night at school, I wangled myself a swishing from Miss Markham with her Moluccan cane - it was then she first suggested I should meet the professor. Ironically, later that night she caught us smoking on the roof and I got another dose in the morning - my last day - along with Charlie and two friends.
"So... did she?" I ask.
She grins. "Twelve strokes, my last night. She caught me and Nicki having a fag in the toilet after lights-out."
"And I bet you weren't too careful," I say. "What was it like?"
"Agony, but... different. She gave us four strokes touching toes, four over the desk, like normal; then four standing with our hands on our heads."
"Wow! Intense! And that was your last...?"
She nods.
"Well, this'll be my first session for six months," I say, "so you've had it a bit more recently than me." I wriggle my bum against the wall. "Can't wait!"
Charlie leans forward and rubs her hands on the thighs of her jeans, apprehensive. "What's she like, the professor?"
"You'll like her," I say. "She's like a slightly older version of Markie - super-wise and knowing, almost like she can read your thoughts. And strict as hell - really makes you squirm the way she looks at you when she's telling you off. I love it. But unlike school, the disapproval's sort of... more grown-up somehow, more meaningful. And behind the stern exterior you get the feeling she's grateful you're there. When we're not playing - mealtimes mostly - she's relaxed and friendly, and incredibly interesting. She's so well read, it's like she knows everything!"
Charlie exhales and raises her eyebrows. "Sounds good." She grins at me. "Doesn't mean I'm not scared shitless, though."
3. Rachel. Friday 5.25pm
I'm early. I lean my shoulders against the wall outside the punishment room, and cup my bare buttocks in my palms - the maid's outfit is open at the back from the waist down so I'm on permanent display during serving hours. I've removed the high heels (brief relief before the storm) and placed them neatly by the door, as required.
She wants me in role this weekend as her 'assistant' for Martha and her friend, as well as tomorrow's monthly session with the undergraduates, so this'll be my 'finale' for this year's visit.
My heart's thumping, my stomach in knots.
The fear.
No matter how often I've been in this situation - from schooldays outside the Head's study to this house here in Cambridge, via adventures elsewhere these many years - the fear doesn't change. You'd think I'd be used to it, that the anticipation would have lost its power to set my nerves a-jangling this way, but no, the prospect of such pain is never not terrifying. And I defy you to face the dozens at the professor's hand that I do now and not find your bottom twitching and tingling while your bladder declares that the pee you had five minutes ago wasn't enough.
So why am I here? Well, you're reading this, so I suspect you already know the answer.
I hear her climbing the staircase - that slow, steady progress, her back straight, eyes keen. I stand to attention.
"Ready, Thomas?" she asks, coming towards me.
"Yes, Madam."
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