by DJ Black
Rosalyn Beauchamp carefully placed one foot in front of the other as her stylish high heels clacked their way down the parquet floor. This gave her a sashaying gait that coupled with her expensive skirt suit made her feel like a model on a catwalk. Judging from the glances of the older boys and masters alike she guessed she also looked the part, and the expression that lightly touched her lips was bordering on smug. At 40 you still have it, she thought, her smile now barely contained by her full pouting lips.
To avoid meeting any male gaze she kept her eyes and nose turned upwards in a gesture of aloofness as if eye-contact might break the spell and give her away as a fraud. It was a posture that drew her glance to the high school windows that were set too far from the ground to see out of. This and the airy wide corridor added to the feeling that the school was turned inwards and remained an elite haven from the world. And so it should be, Rosalyn thought, her step-daughter's school fees certainly cost her enough.
She smelt the old wood and polish, a scent to take her back to her own school days and a building much like this one. The only difference was that her alma mater had no boys. Catherine must be having a high old time, Rosalyn thought, and that was the trouble.
She was just pondering this as she arrived at Catherine's housemaster's study door. Rosalyn's tummy did tumbles as memories came flooding back, and her bottom twitched against the fabric of her D&G pencil skirt. Unconsciously, she fussed with her auburn red hair as if to be certain that it did not reach her collar, but catching herself she pressed her tongue to her cheek and remembered her business.
The door was cold and hard to her knuckles and she still couldn't quite suppress the apprehension of old, perhaps with good reason.
She was admitted by a handsome rugger type pushing 50. His smile was genuine and for once she made an effort to remember his name, as if being bonkable rendered him more significant than being the mere guardian of Catherine's education.
Peter, she thought, her mind in a scrabble. "Mr Trent," she managed, but saying it a shade too quickly.
"Mrs Beauchamp," he said warmly as he ushered her in.
"I hope you don't mind me calling in, I know it isn't really done." She made a grimace. "But I gather our Catherine has been rather troublesome."
Peter Trent pulled a chair from the desk and gestured her to sit. His smile became relaxed and he made a dismissive gesture. "No more so than any other spirited 18-year-old about to leave us," he chuckled. "When faced with their final term these eager young people do tend to jump the gun when it comes to obeying the rules and imagine themselves immune."
"I am so glad you put it that way," Rosalyn said with an emphasis on the relief. "You know being a widow now... well Catherine can be quite a handful... so I have nothing to worry about?" she asked as if she didn't already know that.
"Not unless recent events are troubling you?" As Trent spoke his smile tightened around the eyes. Some parents could get a little precious about their daughters when it came to discipline.
"Recent events?" she asked blankly, although she knew exactly what he was talking about. In a roundabout way it was why she was here.
"I have caned Catherine twice this term already, and I rather suspect that I am about to see her again regarding another matter," Trent said in a firm baritone voice.
Rosalyn felt her tummy flip and she had to moisten her lips with a quick darting tongue before she could speak.
"I am sure you know your business; why should that have troubled me?" she asked casually, but not so casually as to put him entirely at ease; after all she wanted to hear a little more.
"She was somewhat resistant at our first meeting and I had to apply eight tight ones," he said sharply.
"A rebellion," Rosalyn said, matching his tone.
"Not quite, but... well having raised the bar and to be tested so I felt that another eight were needed at our next encounter, although she was rather less fractious then," Trent explained.
"And..."
"Well... we usually give four or six to girls, well I do anyway, especially as... well delicate skin and all that." Trent coughed.
"Oh that, I was quite startled when I heard that bare benders, as we used to call them, were the custom here," Rosalyn said in faux horror, "but not as startled as Catherine was. The price for coming to a school formerly an all-male establishment, I told her. She was offered Cheltenham or... that other place in Sussex..."
"And she favoured us?" Trent chuckled again.
"Girls never think it will happen, do they? I know I didn't." Rosalyn matched his laugh.
"Forgive me, but you were coeducational too?" Trent asked in some surprise.
"Oh..." she gasped modestly. "Hardly anything so progressive, but despite being all girls, my school was somewhat strict and traditional along much the same lines as here. So Catherine isn't getting anything I didn't have. In fact..."
"Oh how remiss," Trent interrupted. "I haven't offered you tea...?"
"No thank you," Rosalyn said.
"Sorry, you were saying?" Trent frowned.
"Only that... well girls don't break easily, so don't stint your duty and don't worry about raising the bar, as you put it. It will do her good. It did me good, even if I didn't appreciate it at the time. Furthermore, I think she is so much better off under a man's hand, she will later have fond memories I am sure..." Rosalyn averted her gaze as she broke off.
"I hadn't realised that gentile girls' schools were so... instructive," Trent chuckled.
"Oh believe it," Rosalyn said in a tone approaching eager. "I miss it in many ways and would have given anything for the experience that Catherine has received."
"What, even the swishings?" Trent said in surprise.
"Especially the cane and how... uncompromising you are," Rosalyn blurted.
There was an uncomfortable silence and Trent coughed.
"I suppose it is never too late though," Rosalyn prompted him.
"Well... indeed not but..." Trent worked his mouth and tried to get the conversation grounded.
"After all I don't really like authorising such a regime for my step-daughter when it is so long since I experienced it myself; besides I am hardly a saint." Rosalyn could hardly believe what she was saying; although she had planned it, but now she had openly spoken...
"Are you suggesting...?" Trent spluttered.
Rosalyn took a deep breath and then drawing herself upright in the chair she said, "I rather think I am."
"You think it a jape?" Trent said sternly.
Rosalyn trembled and whispered, "Oh no."
Rosalyn stood shivering, and not just because she was half-undressed. She was now in just her blouse and underwear, with sheer black knickers pulled up over her matching stockings and garter belt.
The rest of her clothes were now neatly folded on a chair by the door while she faced another padded armchair in the centre of the room.
"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" Trent asked, although most of his attention was on a selection of canes hanging in a now open cupboard.
Rosalyn nodded to the desk on which lay a piece of paper. In her own hand and at her own suggestion was a short signed note absolving him from any future complications and outlining her voluntary submission.
"You have my carte blanche," she said, swallowing nervously.
"Are you sure about the twelve strokes?" Trent pressed her as he made his selection.
The cane was long and rapier thin; it seized Rosalyn's attention and she quailed.
"If I rebel in any way as Catherine did then you can..." She gulped and made herself add, "You can start over and give me double."
"Very well, but once I begin I will press on to the bitter end," he said sharply.
Rosalyn nodded.
"Now I want you to take down your..." He coughed. "And then bend over the back of the armchair."
She took a deep breath and then stooped to obey him. Although she paused for a moment, she quickly drew her knickers down and stepped out of them. Shyly, she cupped her hands to the dark triangle of hair framed by the stocking belt, but as if quelling a personal rebellion she deliberately removed them again before facing the back of the chair.
Then with a determined nod and a double air punch with her arms, she bent over.
Her elbows found the seat of the chair, but the roughness of the upholstery against her sex was disconcerting. So too was the thought of the exposure of her bare bottom which was now uppermost to this man's gaze.
"How long is it since you have been in this position?" he asked as he lined up his arm.
A stern talking to during operations helped keep the student unresisting he always found, but in Rosalyn's case he had nothing to draw upon except her past.
"Twen-twenty... twenty-two years I think," Rosalyn said breathlessly.
Trent lined up the cane to the target and tapped the woman's bare bottom with it.
"Ooh," Rosalyn gasped at this first touch.
Trent smiled and shook his head before giving it to her in earnest.
"Ahhhhh," Rosalyn hissed, her eyes as wide as cognac glasses.
Trent studied the pink line of pain developing on the woman's magnificent bottom, and gained an insight into why some of his colleagues enjoyed this work.
He placed another stroke on hard below the first, aiming at a point just beyond the curve of the bottom so that she could feel the benefit.
Rosalyn met the impact with a panicked gulp-gasp as she bucked in place.
Trent waited. The two red lines were stark on the white flesh and although clean, looked sharp and swollen. It was an easy matter to add a third and then a fourth while Rosalyn Beauchamp rocked and clawed at the padded chair and made distressed gurgling noises in her throat.
"You're doing well," he said as he moved around to her face to see how she was doing.
Predictably, her eyes were rimmed red and pooled with tears. Confusion danced on her face, and no doubt she was regretting her request about now. He noticed how she was breathing raggedly and was clenching and unclenching her small fists.
He waited until she nodded. Then he moved back behind her and tapped at her behind so that she startled and made anticipatory jerking movements.
"Wait for it," he said, still tapping her bottom.
He placed five, six and seven on hard and fast; he did that sometimes as changing the pace suddenly took away control, and let the miscreant know who was master. In this case Rosalyn was shaken and made to yell out as she bucked violently. At seven she jumped up and slapped her hands to her bare stinging bottom as a prelude to a ridiculous dance around the room.
"Bastard," she hissed.
"You'll take two more for that insolence," he said in a calm, stern voice.
"Oh please..." she sniffed. "I couldn't take another..." She was about to say a number but had lost track. All she knew was that a total of fourteen was a bite beyond a chew.
"You will take another fourteen," Trent told her, and waited for that to sink in.
Rosalyn's eyes flashed in horror, and she worked her mouth. But he was right; this was a rebellion he had warned of. Had Catherine reacted the same way?
"Bend back over," he said and swiped the cane through the air.
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