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The Birthday Treat Chapter 3

The first two girls are dealt with.
The Birthday Treat by Sylvie Johnson

as told to John Larame


The door is a heavy one, thick enough to reduce any talking to an incomprehensible mumble but not sufficiently deadening to cover the sound either of the impact of a stinging swishy cane on an unprotected pair of female buttocks or of any anguished response from the unfortunate recipient. The three of us listen anxiously, but Miss Fisher likes to take her time and indulge in a little light-hearted conversation with each culprit before she gets down to business. We hear the sound of voices and then silence, presumably as Janet prepares herself and gets into position. How many are we going to get? I’m hoping against hope that it will be only four, since our crime is obviously not being taken too seriously by any of the staff, but everybody knows that senior pupils are virtually guaranteed six even for minor offences. Jessica’s eyes are closed and my knees have already begun to knock when we hear the first stroke land.

The ghastly “thwick!” - a lot louder and more unpleasant than the noise that Mrs Francis’s cane made - is too much for Tracey. She dives into the loo with an audible moan that doesn’t quite obscure the sound of stroke number two making contact with even greater force. Other teachers always stand in the same place while they are beating you. This means that the most painful part of the cane - the end - makes one side of your bum hurt a lot more than the other (as Heather was forcibly reminded a few minutes ago), but it at least gives you the chance to sit down fairly soon afterwards if you put your weight on the less marked area.

Miss Fisher, however, always delivers the strokes in pairs, changing sides quickly between them so that the first is served backhanded and the second with the forehand. She’s unbelievably accurate both ways, and you end up with an evenly marked bum that’s agonisingly painful on both sides and makes contact with any kind of seat pretty well impossible for at least an hour or two. I’m already resigned to the fact that my journey home in mummy’s BMW is going to be made kneeling in the back.

Jess and I stand transfixed, listening for the next dose. After about five seconds numbers three and four land in quick succession, echoed by an anguished “eek!” from Janet. Any hopes that we might get away with just four are dashed by the fact that the door remains firmly shut, with no sound of movement from within. There follows another pause, and then that horrible sound twice more, this time followed both by a high-pitched squeal and by the sound of heels tapping on the wooden floor. The door flies open and Janet reappears, her face distorted and her hands frantically scrabbling beneath her skirt.

Christ! Why does she have to lay it on so hard?” she squeaks. “Oooh! I never dreamt that PD would be as bad as this. God! - doesn’t it sting!”

She starts to hop madly from foot to foot. The first visit to Miss Fisher is always a horrible shock.

Successive Heads of Discipline have worked out over the years how to make this whole experience as gruelling as possible for us. Not only must your bum be totally bare - a pair of gym knickers would at least preserve some modesty, even if they didn’t soak up any of the pain - but you aren’t allowed to leave the ante-room until you are dismissed. Anybody who’s experienced the cane knows that the one thing that you desperately want to do is to keep some semblance of dignity, both in front of whoever’s caned you and in front of other pupils - particularly if they’re younger than you.

After a formal beating in the office from any of the other teachers - never less than four given with a Number Two - you know that at the very least you’re going to have to squirm around more than you’d like to with your hands massaging your bum, but we older girls can generally manage to hold out for ten seconds or so without having to rub (even after six of the best), usually by folding our arms in front of us. Ten seconds is just about enough to get out of the office, past Mrs Reid and any other girls lined up for their turn, and out of sight into the corridor before you simply must do something to try and relieve the sting. You can even wait there for a few minutes until the very worst of the pain wears off, to try and avoid the embarrassment of making a complete exhibition of yourself in the main entrance hall where there will almost always be several so-called “friends” hanging around pretending to read the sports notice-boards but actually hoping to see you come back struggling with your rear end.

If, however, it’s Miss Fisher’s Number Three doing the damage, not only does it hurt far too much to pretend otherwise, but she makes you wait in the ante-room until she’s satisfied that the pain has reached its peak and that she’s done a good job. She also makes sure that you don’t wait outside the door afterwards.

Janet, therefore, has no choice but to do her impromptu disco dance in front of Mrs Reid, Jessica and me. I don’t know why, but bad though it is during the actual caning, the sting always seems get even worse when you’re trying to rub it better afterwards. We can tell from the speed of the footwork and the frantic high-pitched gasps that the fire’s reaching its climax just as Tracey returns from the loo, stopping in her tracks and turning a degree paler as she sees the display of aerobics. At the same moment, Miss Fisher comes out of the office again, beckoning to Janet who stands in front of her, mouth open, hands still busy under her skirt and feet tapping away merrily.

“Good. I’m glad to see I haven’t lost my touch yet,” she says. “Have I persuaded you to do without the demon drink in school in future?”

Janet manages a “Yes, miss” in a very squeaky voice and Miss Fisher grins broadly.

“Off you go then. Happy birthday!”

Janet’s right hand separates itself from her bum long enough to grab the door handle. She flings the door open, and we hear her footsteps accelerating to a sprint down the corridor before the door swings shut again.

“Right, Jessica. Let’s see if we can instil the same feeling of penitence in you, shall we?”

Jess frowns, bites her lip and marches into the office to meet her fate. The door closes again and we wait.

The same incomprehensible murmurings from inside the office. The same silence. The same initial pair of strokes - “thwick .. thwick”. There’s no audible response from the recipient this time, even after numbers three and four. Jess is muscular and tough. Five and six seem to land with even more power than the others as if Miss Fisher’s making a special effort to force an acknowledgement of her efficiency from Jess’s lips, but all we hear afterwards is the sound of footsteps heading without undue haste towards the door. She walks out slowly with arms firmly folded, mouth closed tightly and eyes wide open, staring straight ahead, totally without expression. She goes to the window and stands looking out for about five seconds, until even she can last out no longer.

With a very audible “Oooh shit!” she admits defeat and turns to face us with her eyes squeezed shut and her hands flying back to massage her scalded rear. By the time Miss Fisher reappears, she’s quite as active as Janet was. Being fit and athletic is no protection against a Number Three applied with a very strong wrist action, and she runs on the spot with her knees coming up level with her waist in front of her tormentor, hissing with the pain.

Miss F smiles.

“Message received, Jessica?”

Jess nods frantically but elects not to increase Miss Fisher’s amusement by trying to speak. Then she turns and dances to the door while Tracey is invited into the torture chamber. She sidles unwillingly in and once again the door closes.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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