by Frank Martinet
The girl stood at my door, humble and contrite, wringing her hands nervously, and looking like she'd just swallowed roadkill. She was casually dressed in repulsive modern clothes, tight black jeans and a blood-red shirt with some garish rock band logo. She looked as nervous as a virgin on prom night. I couldn't help but notice she was terribly cute, with short-cropped brown hair, large luminous eyes, and slender lips that looked deliciously youthful to an old man. Though I'm well past seventy, I'm still a man, and this young thing reminded me of it most alarmingly.
"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but are you Headmaster Jenkins?"
I laughed out loud. I hadn't been called Headmaster in fifteen years. "I used to be. Who's asking?"
The girl blushed. "I'm Cecilia Von Groph. I, uh... I have a favor to ask."
"Do I know you?"
"No, sir."
"Then why..."
"I overheard some of the girls down at the laundry talking. They said a Headmaster lived here. They said you used to run the prep school in Waley."
"You're looking for a Headmaster you don't know?"
"Yes sir."
"Why?"
"May I come in sir? It'd be easier to explain inside." The girl's darting, nervous eyes and earnest expression melted my heart. I ushered her in, puzzled but intrigued.
We settled in the living room. I offered her iced tea, as it was a warm summer evening and I already had one, but she declined. She seemed too nervous to eat or drink anything.
I sipped mine and waited. She glanced up at me a couple times out the tops or corners of her eyes, but seemed unable to begin. She sat fidgeting with her hands on her knees.
"Best to just blurt it out, like ripping off a band-aid," I said.
She looked at me in surprise, then gave me a quick smile. "You're right. I'm sorry, I'm nervous."
"What's to be nervous about? It's not like I'm a real Headmaster and you're a naughty schoolgirl who's been sent to my office."
The surprise on her face couldn't have been greater than if I'd suddenly slapped her. She stared, the blood draining from her cheeks. "Oh!" she cried out. Then, after a pause, "But sir, that's exactly what it is." She gave a delightful squirm on my sofa, her slender body writhing like a frightened child.
"You mean you have been sent to the Headmaster?"
"Well... I've sent myself."
"I see. Why, may I ask?"
Again, she the blushing as the girl couldn't look me in the eye. "I... I've been a bad girl. I am looking for someone who can, uh, well, uh, keep me in line."
This was definitely getting interesting, as long dead body parts were coming alive to tell me. I sat up straighter, a stern expression on my face.
"You're here for thrashing."
"Yes sir," whispered the girl with an awed whimper, as though she couldn't believe it herself.
"Stand up."
"Sir?"
It was always amazing to me how the threat of imminent punishment dulled the brain. "Stand up! You aren't deaf, are you?"
Confused, the girl reluctantly stood.
"Hands at your sides. Turn around, slowly. Let me look at you."
Slowly, the girl obeyed. I studied her. She was slender, a bit too skinny for my old-fashioned tastes, but attractive. At least she was definitely a woman, with jutting apple-sized breasts and a nice round bum.
"How old are you?" My guess was eighteen or nineteen and I expected that was high.
"Twenty-four."
"The truth."
"That is the truth."
"The real truth, and I mean it."
She blushed, and looked away for a moment. "Alright. I'm nineteen. But I'll be twenty in a couple of months."
I was still surprised and skeptical. "Let me see your id." She passed it over and I saw she was indeed being honest. I handed it back.
"So, you're here for the cane."
Her cheeks flamed and she gave a little shrug.
"You've been caned before?"
"Yes sir."
"Hurt much?"
"Unbearably."
"Yet you are here."
"Yes sir."
"You like pain."
"No sir!"
"You enjoy being punished, then."
"No, it's not that. It's..."
I waited, giving her plenty of time.
"It's hard to explain. I don't like the punishment at all, not at all. But afterward... I feel better. It's... cleansing," she finished lamely. She was drawing on the carpet with one toe, not really aware of what she was doing. "Does that make any sense?"
"It does."
"So will you...?"
"Are you sure you know what you're asking for?" She nodded, but I wasn't convinced. "This will be humiliating."
"Yes sir."
"You'll have to disrobe before a strange man."
Bright red cheeks. "Yes sir."
"You'll have to bend over in vulnerable and embarrassing positions that show me private areas of your body."
A pink tongue licked dry lips. "Yes sir."
"And above all, this will hurt."
A gulp. A hesitant nod. "Yes sir."
"I don't just mean a little discomfort. I don't joke around with the cane. If I do this, it will be severe. It will hurt like nothing you've ever felt. I'll take the skin off your bottom."
The girl looked like she needed to pee badly. The tongue licked again. Her face was pale, but her eyes were bold and determined. "Yes sir."
"If I say yes, you will be completely without control over what happens to you. I will make all the decisions regarding the severity, duration, and type of punishment."
She nodded.
"That's what you want, isn't it. Lack of control."
She smiled for the first time. "Yes sir. I've tried... I, er, can't punish myself. It just doesn't work. I need someone else. Someone strict. Someone I can't bribe or manipulate."
"And you think I'm the one?"
"They said you had a reputation for being a demon with the cane, sir."
"The girls at the laundry?"
She nodded. "One said she'd been a student of yours. She'd gotten whacked a couple of times and she said she was still walking funny!"
"How did that make you feel?"
"It made me all trembly inside. I was frightened, but I knew you were the one."
I crossed to the window and looked out. It was dark and quiet, after nine. I pretended to think the situation over for a few minutes. The girl was still standing nervously in the middle of the room.
"Cecilia, eh?"
"Yes sir."
Still facing the window I said, "I'll do it under one condition."
"Yes?" Amazing how hope and fear could be combined into a single breathy verbalization.
"This isn't a one-time event. You will present yourself every Sunday night for discipline."
I didn't need to turn and look to sense the complex emotions on the girl's face. No doubt she was surprised, elated, terrified.
"Each session we'll go over your sins of the previous week and I will punish you for them."
"Yes sir." Her voice was soft with awe.
"It'll be strict and painful, but you'll benefit."
"Yes sir."
"One more thing." Her eyes widened with alarm. I turned to face her. "One of the most important principles in punishment is that it must always be worse than you expect."
The girl looked like she was about to swoon. She grasped at the armrest of the sofa for support, but went down anyway, as though I'd shoved her.
"Did I give you permission to sit?" I said icily.
She leaped up. "N-n-no sir." It sounded like she was weeping already.
"You do understand, don't you?" I said softly. "It must be worse or there's no point?"
Cogs turned slowly in her head. Then she nodded firmly. "Yes sir."
"Like if you were expecting six, I'd have to give you eight."
She shuddered, but nodded.
"If you thought I was going to use the lightweight junior girls' cane, I might pull out the heavy senior boys' rattan, or perhaps the stout whalebone rod, or maybe... maybe even the birch."
"Oh sir!"
"It's my decision as to what to use. How many strokes. In what position. You will comply. You will obey."
A whimper escaped her. "Yes sir."
"It will NOT be pleasant, I can assure you. It will not be token punishment." I paused. "Who caned you?"
"My father... and the headmaster at my old school."
"When did your father last cane you?"
"I was thirteen."
"What was it for?"
"I came home after curfew for the second time in a week."
"How many?"
She shuddered. "Seven."
"Hurt?"
"Yes sir."
"You cry?"
"Yes."
"You come home on time after that?"
"Yes."
"So the thrashing did you good."
"Yes sir."
"And at school. When did you last get it at school?"
"I was sixteen. For smoking. Six strokes."
"Bare?"
"Across my knickers."
I shrugged. "Doesn't sound like much. For smoking, I'd have given you eight, at least. On the bare."
"Ouch."
"One could say that you were never properly punished for smoking, couldn't one."
She shrugged. "I guess. I..."
"Touch your toes."
"Sir?"
"You going deaf again?"
A guilty look crossed her face, and then she obeyed immediately, bending over and grabbing her ankles. I stood behind her, studying the pert rump presented to me.
"How many did I say I give for smoking?"
There was a pause. "Eight, sir."
"That was for a child of sixteen."
"Oh."
"You're not sixteen. You're nineteen. Three years older. What's eight and three?"
"Eleven."
"And you're wearing pants."
"Yes sir."
"How many are pants worth?"
"Uh, two sir?"
"Be realistic!"
"Four?"
"That'd be fifteen. That sounds better."
"Yes sir."
"I'll just fetch my cane. You will not move."
I keep a collection of canes in a bin in my study, sort of souvenirs of the old days. I sorted through these, taking my time, giving the girl plenty of opportunity to escape should she wish. When I returned, flexing a long lightweight rod, she was still in position. Sweating, but still in position.
"This is a nice introductory rod. Not heavy, but it's rather whippy and stings a bit." I showed it to her from behind, her frightened face peering up at me from between her legs.
The bum in front of me was very round, fuller than most of the youngsters I've had the privilege of thrashing. While the girl wasn't plump, her butt was certainly meaty. It would take the cane well.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes, sir." The voice was weak and faint.
"I said, 'Are you ready?'"
"Yes, sir!"
"Good. Fifteen it is. Extras for undignified conduct. No wailing or squealing or begging, and certainly no getting out of position or putting a hand back to block a stroke."
"No, sir."
I didn't waste any more time but set about thrashing the girl. I beat her hard, with lively strokes up and down that full bum. The girl did squeal a bit, gasping and blowing air, hissing and wiggling her rump at the stinging strokes, but nothing I wasn't expecting. After eight she was starting to really feel it. Her breath was raspy and she was beginning to cry. I slowly continued the beating. Twelve was a hard stroke, low, and she groaned like a man. Thirteen came quickly in the same spot and she yelped like a kicked puppy.
"How are you doing?"
A pant. "F-fine, s-s-sir."
"Feeling it?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Two more to go, plus extras."
I gave her four more, just to remind her that it's always worse than you expect. I didn't elaborate on why she'd gotten extras; I figured she'd assume she had made too much noise or lacked poise or something, and I wanted her uncertain, as that would make future beatings that much more traumatic.
"Good," I said when it was over. I stood and watched her quivering bottom. The cheeks were vibrating slightly, with the occasional meaty shudder. I was growing more and more interested in seeing such a fine bum bare.
"You may rise."
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