“Miss Hamilton. Please wait behind after class. I want to talk to you about your composition.”
A crocodile of chattering, pinafored girls make their way out of the classroom, their braids and bunches bumping gently against shoulders and bags. Slowly, you finish packing your satchel, leaving the incriminating Latin book out on the desk.
“Come here, please.” I take a seat at my desk. You approach, eyes downcast, the book clutched in front of your chest like a shield.
“Miss Hamilton, I don’t believe you did any study for this recent composition. You made trivial, careless mistakes and your handwriting was practically illegible. What have you to say for yourself?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Birch. I’ll try harder next time.”
“Miss Hamilton, I think you need some extra tuition, in the light of your upcoming final exams. I will not have my young ladies making mistakes like this at the age of eighteen, it is most unbecoming. You are to come to my rooms at 8pm sharp tonight. I also feel you were sloppy and slapdash, for which you will receive punishment. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Miss Birch.” Your voice trembles.
As you turn to leave, I take up the board duster and begin to beat the chalk dust out with a ruler.
8pm prompt. A furtive, frightened tapping on my door.
You enter. Your uniform is spotless, I note with approval, sharply creased and smelling faintly of outdoors. Your hair is tightly pulled back, revealing all of your features, those feline, uptilted eyes I’ve been watching for weeks.
Despite your nervousness, you cannot keep yourself from drinking in the sights of my room – such a change from my external, severe persona; and the summons to a teacher’s room happens so rarely, it is worth the possible rudeness of gawking. The armchairs are overstuffed, worn chocolate leather. Red and gold drapes hang from a window overlooking the lake. A low fire crackles and pops gently on the grate, the scent of cedar rising from it to mix with the heavy perfume of deep red roses from the vase above. The furniture is pushed back against the cool, stone walls; and in the centre of the room, all alone, stands a matching leather stool.
I put down my book and swiftly cross to the door, locking it behind you. I can almost see the shiver of fear run down your spine as you remember you’re here to receive punishment, not to stare about.
I take you by the shoulders and propel you to the stool.
“Take off your panties, raise your skirt and lie across the stool, please.”
You swallow hard. “My…my panties, Miss Birch?”
“Yes, Miss Hamilton. Nothing less than a bare-bottomed caning will have the desired effect.”
Slowly, reluctantly, you raise your skirt. Shyly, you turn around as you take off your underwear and I have my first glimpse of your bottom.
“Please raise your skirt higher and lie across the stool.”
I reach for the cane from its place on the wall. It is an unusual instrument, not crook-headed as you would normally expect. It has a straight, thick, glossy black handle which is rounded at the tip. It was passed to me by a former teacher of mine who also taught at this school when I was a girl.
I place my hand in the small of your back. You feel my nails grip slightly, and a shudder passes through you as you await the searing pain of the cane.
The blow takes you by surprise, and you cry out in shock. It sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room, and barely a second later, fire rips across the globes of your bottom, causing tears to start in your eyes.
Again, the gunshot strike. It’s hard to tell if the pain is greater or lesser this time, lying just under the first blow. Another lands, and another. Then another. The whole of your bottom is on fire now. I can see you biting your lips hard as tears trickle from the corners of your beautiful eyes.
There is a pause. The screaming pain settles down into a firey throbbing, and you risk a brief glance at your torturer. My hair has tumbled out of its tight knot and waves around my head like some wild Medusa creature. I am breathing hard and my breasts pull at the buttons of my silk blouse; through the gap created you catch a brief glimpse of black lace. My skirt has ridden up my thighs, showing the tops of my stockings.
I look down lovingly at the stripes I have created. Bright red weals sing out their agony to me, criss-crossing your buttocks and down onto the tops of your thighs. Your eyes have closed as the pain washes over you, but there’s a little half-smile on your lips. A long sigh escapes you, and I can’t resist one more lash, right across the crease where your bottom meets your thighs.
Gently, I reach down to confirm what I already knew. You’re soaking wet.
“You’re a bad girl, Miss Hamilton. And bad girls need education.”
I stroke the hair back from your face. Leaning down, I plant a soft kiss on your lips as my hand slides across your still-singing buttocks into the cleft between your legs. Slowly, slowly, I rub my thumb across you, back and forth, back and forth, in hypnotic motion, building the speed and the pressure as you open underneath me like a flower under sunlight. Your breath is ragged, unable to believe what is happening to you and yet falling, flowing into the sensation as it builds. You push your bottom back onto my hand, wanting more, begging me to tip you over the edge although you cannot say a word. Then my fingers are inside you and you clutch the stool in shock and hunger, desperate to be filled. I press down hard as we move together now, my own crisis approaching as I see the first ever wave of yours crash over your face.
Somehow, we are on the floor, my hand working hard between your thighs, your face pressed into my breasts, hands clawing off my blouse and bra to take my nipples in your mouth. I twist my other hand in your hair, crushing you against me as we fall together into the vast, welcoming ocean of the little death…and at the last second I take my hand away from you and squeeze your buttocks hard. The pain explodes through you as your body convulses in pleasure, the twin sensations closing down all rational thought, and you nip at my breasts, your hands fluttering over my body as it breaks on the shore of your virginity.
After a moment, I rise from the carpet and cover you with a rug. Dressing myself quickly, I pour you a glass of water and help you to come out of your stupor. Eventually, you pull yourself together enough to straighten your blouse and skirt and stand up. You pick up your Latin book from the table as the clock chimes nine-thirty…almost lights-out time. I hear the Matron climbing the stair, on the prowl for the last girls out of bed. Quietly, I unlock the door and open it as she comes past, her lamp swinging.
“Thank you for your instruction, Miss Birch…” Your eyes shine.
“You’re welcome, Miss Hamilton. Do feel free to ask for help in future – when your creative juices are not flowing as they should.”
“I will. Good night, Miss Birch.”
“Good night, Miss Hamilton.” I wait till you reach the head of the staircase.
“Oh, Miss Hamilton?”
You look up, startled.
“You got 97% on your composition.”
The door clicks as it closes on your astonished face.
I see your discarded panties on the carpet, and take them into my bedroom.