He was retired now, but still very active. Fit as a fiddle, plenty of interests. Henry Ashly had always believed in living for the day, but that didn’t mean there couldn’t be a great deal of pleasure to be gained from re-living the past. Especially when one had a past like his.
He had but to open his bureau-desk and take out the hard-backed black book, with its red spine, which lay there, and he was back in that room. A room full of memories. They would stay with him always but, just the same, it was useful to have that black book to trigger off the recollection of some special occasion.
Over the years, that room had changed very little. It was long and narrow, not particularly convenient, yet it served its purpose adequately. You reached it through a door in the gym, passing through the washroom with its shower. There were some seasonal changes, of course. Tennis rackets lying around in the summertime; hockey sticks in the winter. For the room was used as a store for sporting bric-a-brac as well as… well… for more ‘private’ purposes. His purposes. On occasions, he recalled, some of the young ladies would bring him flowers. Daffodils in the Spring, chrysanthemums in the Autumn. Charming gesture; charming young ladies. Those bearers of such gifts were not, however, aware of what, from time to time, went on in that room. Perhaps they would have been less munificent if they had!
No-one had ever been aware. Henry had been too careful for that. If not to say, cunning. That had been most necessary, for the students in his charge (partial charge, anyway).
They were young ladies between the ages of 18 and 20, desirous of making a career in the academic field. Very worthy, if not particularly lucrative. Marston’ s Teacher Training College had been founded in the 1930’s to assist such young ladies. To give them the right background, correct principles, and also a far wider education than they received at school. Ultimately, of course, to ensure that they received their Certificate of Education, which was their entree into the teaching world.
Henry opened his desk and took out the black book. He got the same pleasurable inner tingle as always as he opened it at random. He was at once back in that room again. With its familiar spartan furnishings and the sporting odds and ends. There was the smell of it, too. Linseed oil, leather, paint. And sometimes a faint odour of dried sweat. He looked at the entry he had lighted upon in this very private record of his.
Date 25th June 1959. Wendy Chalmers. He’d got a rather fuzzy snapshot of her stuck into his book somewhere but it could not disguise her prettiness. She’d been 19 then; halfway through her course. Exam time. A very nerve-racking time for any student, especially one who wasn’t doing too well. Wendy needed all the help she could get. As Deputy Head, he was well aware of that. He looked at what he had written at the time.
Decided to offer Wendy a brief look at her English Paper — if she would agree to my terms. After a great deal of prevarication, she did.
Twelve strokes of the cane was my price. She’d had six some months before so was very unwilling to receive twice that number. Quite understandable. Still, the pressure for her to pass the Intermediate Paper was very great.
Having agreed, she still made a great deal of fuss. I did not spare her.
Yes, Henry was back in that small, familiar room again. So long ago now, yet still so vivid in his mind.
He unlocked the big, white-doored cupboard which contained those items of equipment which were for his eyes only. And, needless to say, the eyes of what he had come to name his ‘Secret Six’. Those six young ladies at Marston’s, that is, who, one way or another, had become vulnerable to his disciplinary methods. Through some default, by deceit, or on account of an earlier misdeed. Henry had always contrived to get a girl’s complete school record. Often it could turn out most useful. Just a question of timing, diplomatic suggestion or, if need be, exerting pressure. He had soon been able to gauge whether or not he was on to a ‘winner’. Any signs of genuine resistance or shock from a young lady and Henry dropped her at once. After all, there was a constant supply of student material, so there was no point in courting trouble.
From the cupboard, Henry took out the cane. Then he re-locked the cupboard. Turning, he saw that Wendy had not moved. She still stood, very pale, in the centre of that small room, wearing a thin summer dress — white with red polka dots — which outlined her burgeoning figure most attractively.
‘I… I’m n-not sure, sir…’ she began. Even though they were no longer schoolgirls, they had to call him ‘sir’. A matter of discipline. As he was so fond of saying: ‘A girl must learn discipline before she can effectively impose it.’
‘Changing your mind, Wendy?’ He saw her frightened eyes on the swishy cane. ‘You’ll never pass that Intermediate, you know.’
The 19-year-old was biting her lower lip furiously. The decision was obviously an exceedingly difficult one. Doubtless the sight of the cane was exceedingly unnerving. He stepped back towards the cupboard and took out his key.
‘No…ooo!’ The voice was a sort of squeak. He looked at her. Hard.
‘Don’t play games with me, Wendy. Either you get this caning — and, afterwards, what you want — or you don’t.’
‘I…I’m sorry…’ It was hardly more than a whisper. She lowered her head a little. ‘S-seeing it, made me so scared.’
‘The cane, you mean?’ She nodded. ‘That’s not so surprising. Have you made up your mind finally now?’ Another nod.
‘Y-yes, sir… I’ll… I’ll… do it…’ It was Henry’s turn to nod. With satisfaction. He had been 90% confident the girl would eventually yield, even if it were twelve strokes she was getting.
‘This evening, Wendy,’ he said, ‘I want you kneeling on this chest.’ He indicated the old Army travelling chest he had manoeuvred into the centre of the room earlier. He watched her approach it doubtfully, glancing nervously at the cane. She knelt on the polished wooden top, sliding a little, then checked herself by placing her hands on the floor. At once, Henry yanked up the dress high. Beneath was an under-slip with a wide, frilly-net hem to it. Very pretty. There was also a pair of tight black knickers and a red suspender-belt supporting a pair of stockings. Quite a saucy little dresser, this one, he thought. Tucking the cane under his arm, Henry yanked down the knickers with both hands. They were as tight as a second skin. Mmm… yes… this girl had some bottom. His mind went momentarily back to the time he had first spanked it. An excellent shape, even if not quite yet fully mature. Pity, he reflected, with a wry twist of his mouth, that teacher training did not begin at around 24 or 25!
‘Bottom high, Wendy,’ he ordered crisply. It came up curving tautly. Deliciously. He saw the girl’s hands were still on the floor. Excellent.
‘Not too h-hard, sir…’ she begged plaintively, her whole bottom flinching, first one way then the other. He said nothing but laid the cane lightly on the smooth buttocks. They clenched convulsively and a kind of whinny of dread came from her. Obviously through clenched teeth. Not too severe for the first six, he told himself, otherwise she’ll never survive. Then steadily increase on the second six. That should be the way of it. He knew from experience.
The cane not even rising beyond his shoulder, Henry laid on a wristy cut, almost at the very top of that delightful bottom. As the cane came away, a pink, encircling weal appeared instantly and, gasping out, Wendy squirmed left and right on top of the chest. Had she expected it harder, he wondered? Was she thankful? Certainly he had given her the earlier six with considerably more force. But on that occasion, she had been getting six only. Different tactics.
He waited, watching that bottom settle down again. Seeing the quivering twitches of the soft nates. Not only was she keenly modest, he thought, she’s incredibly nervous as well. Some of the others were capable of showing far more stoicism. Ten seconds passed. Fifteen… twenty. There was no hurry. He always considered it beneficial to keep a girl waiting. Wild, indiscriminate canings were pointless, in his opinion. One should strive for a measured pace and accuracy.
Henry measured that flinching bottom again, lightly touched it, and heard her intake of breath. Then he laid on the second stroke, placing it almost precisely as he had planned — about an inch below the first.
Again that breathless gasp, the head jerking up and back, the behind twisting in pain again. She’ll soon do more than gasp, thought Henry, still determined to stick to the pattern of his plan.
Tap… tap… on the soft, nervous-quivering flesh. The breath sucking in. Up… then down, just a shade more action with the wrist. Wendy kicked out, turning first on one side, then the other, skirt and petticoats flying. ‘Oowww… owww!’ she cried out. Henry said nothing. Just waited. Slowly, reluctantly, the hindquarters were presented again. Still she kept those thighs tight-pressed.
The fourth stroke fell on the lower half of the bottom. Henry was working his way steadily down, spacing the strokes about an inch apart. He was pleased with his precision. The pink weals were almost parallel. Now the shoulders were heaving slightly; he could hear soft sobs. Nates clenched suddenly as he allowed an even longer interval between strokes number four and five. Delightful, he thought. That convulsive, nervy twitch was always something that quite enchanted him. The cane hissed sharply through the air and fell across creamy, soft flesh. ‘ Ahh… owww!’ Again that quick twisting, left and right. The sobs grew louder as she settled once more.
Henry aimed number six at the junction of the buttocks and thighs. Into the crease where, from previous observations, it hurt exceedingly he realised.
Swweee… ccracck! Up went the skirt and petticoats again. Flying high.
‘Yeeowwww!’ Wendy twisted right off the chest, hands clasping at the overhang in a vain effort to ease the pain. ‘Oh no… no…’ she choked. ‘No more… that’s enough… no more…’
Henry’s mouth twisted. He liked hearing them plead; he had to admit it. I’m that kind of bastard, he told himself. Well, what of it? There were far worse excesses in this world. ‘Take a little rest, Wendy,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it’s going to get worse before it gets better.’
‘No… no, sir… please… I can’t take any m-more!’ She was on her knees, hands and arms stretched out to him imploringly. He liked that, too.
‘Don’t be a silly girl,’ he told her. ‘You’re far tougher than you think.’ She gulped disbelievingly. ‘And think of the reward,’ he added. She gulped again, obviously thinking about it. His mind raced ahead to a year’s time, when she would be taking her Finals. She’d be even more desperate to pass those!
‘I want you back on the chest, Wendy,’ he continued, ‘but I shall give you two or three minutes to get yourself together. Also, he reflected, to give myself two or three minutes of visual pleasure.
There was nothing, in his opinion, quite so stimulating as a girl’s bottom, naked and striped. He watched Wendy kneel up on the chest again, but her skirt had fallen. ‘No… no…’ he said impatiently, ‘pull up your skirt; pull everything up.’ He looked on, seeing her forcing herself to obey. Then he seated himself and soaked up the scene, running his fingers along the smoothness of the cane, again and again. Little hiccupping sobs came repeatedly. Ever and anon, the soft flesh of that bottom would give a twitch. The pounding in his temples increased. Soon, I’m really going to cane her, he said to himself.
‘P-please s-sir… isn’t there some other way?’ she said suddenly. His nerves tingled. What was she suggesting?
Mmm… yes… very tempting. But very dangerous, too, if one got involved like that. Perhaps, in twelve month’s time, just before she left…
‘I’m afraid not, Wendy,’ he replied, as calmly as he could. The sobs grew deeper and longer. He nodded understandingly. Such a rejection must have been most wounding to an attractive 19-year-old! Be patient, he told her inwardly, the time will come. Then he stood up. ‘I’m surprised at you,’ he said in a sharp rebuke. He whiplashed the cane hard across the girl’s bottom, laying it diagonally from the bottom of the left cheek to the top of the right one.
Instantly, Wendy catapulted up off the chest, threshing and kicking wildly in torment, skirt and petticoats flying, hands clasping frantically. Then she thumped down on the chest again, turning right over, legs kicking, no concern about modesty. Now only concerned about pain. He saw her eyes, wide with dread, upon him. Overflowing with tears. It was the hardest stroke he’d ever given. Even on that previous occasion as well.
‘Back you go, Wendy,’ he ordered sternly.
‘Back you go. Or the whole deal’s off.’ He could sense the tormenting dilemma in her mind. To have endured so much already… for nothing! That would be absurd. But how could she endure any more like that? The decision, he realised, was not an easy one for her. ‘I mean it,’ he added, moving slightly towards the cupboard.
‘N-not… not so hard…’ she pleaded, tears streaming down her cheeks. Ah, so she is going to continue, he thought.
‘Just leave that to me,’ he said resolutely, twirling the cane to indicate that he wanted her back on her belly. Suddenly realising how she was displaying herself, Henry was amused to see her place one hand over her mound.
‘Back… and don’t take too long about it,’ he said with forced impatience.
In fact, he was in no hurry at all. Henry was enjoying himself no end. This could go on, as far as he was concerned, for just as long as it took.
To his immense satisfaction, Wendy turned herself over again. Slowly and hesitantly she pulled up skirt and petticoats yet again groaning as she did so.
‘N-not… oooh… not so h-hard!’ she begged again. Henry changed his stance. This time he intended to lay the stripe from the bottom of the right buttock-cheek to the top of the left. But it took the girl a long time to settle. She kept twisting half over in anticipation of the stroke and, in the end, he had to strike suddenly, when she was but briefly square on to him.
The stroke was a hard one, but not quite as hard as the seventh had been. All the same, it got very similar reactions, with Wendy twisting right over, again and again, legs kicking and splaying, uninhibitedly displaying herself once more. He saw her pretty face screwed up with pain, the teeth clenched. She’s really feeling it now, he told himself. It was going to take a long while to complete this caning, Henry realised with great satisfaction. Even if there were only four strokes to go.
His realisation proved quite correct for Wendy, quite understandably, grew more and more reluctant to position herself after each new stroke had whiplashed across her weal-throbbing bottom. On her knees, she begged and beseeched, breasts heaving violently with her emotions, tears coursing constantly down. But Henry was adamant.
‘Oooh… u-u-ugghhh… ooooh… let m-me off… u-u-uggghhh… oh please just the last t-two… oh p-please let me off… those!’
She had just had number ten and there were now six pink weals running horizontally over her buttocks and four red purple ones running diagonally. A most delightful pattern, thought Henry, once again congratulating himself on his handiwork. He shook his head in what looked like a sorrowful fashion.
‘Two more to come, Wendy. Let’ s have that bottom nicely presented. Square on, young lady.’ She still remained kneeling, arms outstretched, eyes wide in pleading. Henry regarded her sternly. ‘Never forget, Wendy, I can still call our bargain off.’
He saw that she was instantly aware of the even greater absurdity of that. And yet… and yet… could she bear two more strokes like that? He saw the despair filling those streaming eyes as she understood she would have to.
The final two strokes took all of five minutes to lay on. But lay them on Henry did. Entirely to his satisfaction, what is more. Catching the girl exactly where he had aimed, continuing in diagonal fashion. Oh the tumult of agonised girl-flesh! Oh the breathless, gagging cries of pain!
It had been a most memorable caning, thought Henry, as he looked at Wendy, kneeling on the floor, hands pressing to her bottom, sobbing her heart out.
He still remembered it. Simply reading that note in his treasured black book took him straight back into that room… and to that evening. The sights, the sounds, even the smell of it. The intimate ‘privacy’ of it all. There were not many men, he reflected, who could say they had looked upon a 19-year-old whose bottom was so thoroughly striped it would remain tenderly sore for days, if not a week or more. Fewer still who could say they had been responsible for that striping.
Henry sighed contentedly as he replaced the book. There were so many memories in that book. Wendy had returned, of course. That was recorded. In turn, each one of the ‘Secret Six’ had to pay a visit. It was all faithfully set down. He had but to turn the pages to bring each episode vividly to life.
Feeling a deep inner contentment, Henry made his way up the stairs to the privacy of his bedroom.