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The Birthday Treat Chapter 4

Sylvie's meeting with the cane gets closer
History repeats itself, although this time the initial discussion goes on longer and it sounds as if Tracey has more to say than the others did - surely she can’t be trying to talk her way out of it? However in due course the inevitable happens but this time the sound is more of a resounding “thwack!” than the thinner, dryer “thwick!” and the first two strokes are greeted by a yelp that seems to combine pain and surprise in equal measure. I freeze in horror and Mrs Reid chuckles and speaks for the first time.

“That sounds like a Number Four. This could be interesting.”

At the back of my mind, since this nightmare began, has been a lurking fear that Tracey and I might be in line for something more severe than what has been meted out to the first two, since we are Upper Sixth and they only Lower. We all know that Heads of Discipline have always had several different canes, from the Number Three upwards - the more strokes given, the longer and nastier the cane used. I experienced the usual three footer last March, and Janet and Jess have just given eloquent testimony as to its effectiveness, but Shirley, who’s in the same form as me, was in twice last month and got eight on the second visit. She told us that they were delivered with an unbelievably swishy Number Four, at least forty inches long. It made the previous caning seem “like the touch of a feather” - an obvious exaggeration, but we took the point. When she got home she had no option but to eat her dinner standing and to kneel for the rest of the evening on a stool to do her homework. Mrs Reid’s comment and the evidence of my own ears make me fear the worst.

Three and four do their work and Tracey’s squeals sound still higher and more frantic. Five and six echo behind the door and are received with a real full-voiced howl, but this time there are no footsteps and no opening door. My stomach feels as if it’s going to end up down by my knees and I stand shaking with my eyes fixed on the office door handle. Seven... eight. At last, Tracey’s vocalism is combined with the sound of her feet - much louder and faster than Janet’s were - and she re-emerges in a state that finally demolishes what little remains of my composure. Her wide-open mouth emits a continuous wailing, her eyes are watering, her hands are frantically kneading her buttocks and her indecent uncontrollable writhings testify to the devastating efficiency of Miss Fisher’s ministrations.

Even though Tracey’s eight strokes were obviously much more painful than the six that Janet and Jess got, her agony still increases afterwards just as theirs did. Her boots clatter and skid on the polished wooden floor as she kicks her feet higher and higher while her attempts to rub away some of the worsening sting grow ever more frenzied and ever more useless. A few tears run down her face but she can’t spare a hand to wipe them away. I watch her in horror. If there’s one thing we all dread it’s crying in front of anybody after a beating. Although I hope that I’ll be able to take the strokes with less noise than Tracey, the end reaction is likely to be very similar, and I really want to show Mrs Reid (and therefore mummy) that I can take anything that Miss Fisher can throw at me.

I’m also very worried in case the extra bite of the Number Four makes me jump up and rub before I’ve had the full dose. If it does, I know that I’ll have to take two further smacks from a heavy leather strap for every time I’ve failed to stay in position. This reward for such a lack of self-control is a well-established tradition at St Ciara’s based on the belief that an experienced English public schoolgirl should be able to take her punishment without undue fuss or resistance. So far I’ve always managed to hold out to the end, even up to six PD although it was a close thing, so I’ve never actually had the strap, but I’ve naturally heard all about it.

Michelle in the year below mine got six from Miss F for the first time just after the beginning of this term and couldn’t avoid jumping up after the fourth when the shock of the impact, so much worse than she had ever expected, took her by surprise. In the ante-room afterwards, feet still beating a crazy tattoo on the floor, she had to bend over the back of a chair to take the extra two. Mrs Reid held her hands, and her skirt was again lifted clear of the target area. The strap was over two inches wide and covered in one stroke all of the angry red wheals already throbbing and smarting there. She told us that each cracking delivery (as usual the first backhand followed immediately by the second forehand) not only stung like hell on its own account but made it feel as if the previous six had just landed again all at once. By the time she reached the front entrance she just couldn’t hold back the tears running down her face from the unrelenting torment. As I watch Tracey trying every possible bodily contortion to get some relief, I realise that the effect of a strapping over those eight tram-lines throbbing madly under her skirt, would be unimaginable. Mummy will love it if she hears that Mrs Reid has had to hold me down to take extras and I’ll never hear the last of it.

There seems to be an unusually long delay. The agony has clearly reached its height and isn’t abating at all, but the office door stays shut. I seem to hear sounds as of furniture being moved but it’s difficult to make them out since they’re largely drowned by the noise of Tracey’s stamping boots and her continuous gasps and squeals. She at least manages to spare a hand for a few seconds to wipe her tears away, but as soon as that’s done it flashes back to continue its unavoidable but useless endeavours beneath her skirt.

At last the door opens. The latest victim is sent on her way down the corridor speechless but by no means silent and doubtless praying that the rest of the school will by now have gone home so that there will be nobody left in the front entrance to witness the state that she’s in.

Oh God! Now it’s my turn. Miss Fisher invites me in with a smile, and I unwillingly lead the way. The door clicks shut behind us and I momentarily wonder what state I’ll be in when it opens again. Clearly the sounds I heard after Tracey came out were what I thought. In the centre of the room there’s now a leather covered beam supported at either end by heavy tripods. I look at it in surprise. I saw nothing like that on my last visit when I simply had to bend over and touch my toes before my skirt was lifted over my back and six accurately placed stingers made me resolve to try never to see the room again.

Miss Fisher sits down at a desk by the wall and waves me to stand in front of her.

“Well now, Sylvie, I haven’t seen you here for some time, have I? Still, I hear that you’ve not been entirely unmarked since your last visit; three from Mrs Shaw a couple of weeks ago, I believe?”

Trust her to know about that. I hang my head and whisper “Yes, Miss”.

“Good. Now, I’m sure that you have realised that, although we’re not taking this episode itself very seriously, you’ve broken the school rules and that we expect members of the Sixth Form to show an impeccable example to the lower forms. I’m sure you agree that, with that in mind, it’s only fair that members of the Upper Sixth should expect a rather more severe punishment than those in the Lower Sixth and of course that’s what Tracey has just had. However,” suddenly the warning bells in my head begin to ring again, “I may just have to regard you as even more guilty than her. Not only are you a prefect, but I believe that it was actually you who dreamed up this whole episode and brought in the vodka. Is that so?”

My throat’s too dry to speak. I nod and she chuckles quietly.

“I thought so. Right, let me show you a rather special cane.”

She produces from behind the desk a hideous looking implement that looks to my horrified eyes at least four feet long, and holds it in front of me.

“This is a Number Five. It’s actually no longer than the Number Four which Tracey’s just been introduced to, but this has been in soak since lunch-time to make sure that it’s extra flexible. All except for the tip, which is coated with varnish to keep it nice and hard. I think that you’ll find that when you’ve had your ten with this, you’ll think twice before repeating this morning’s episode.”

I look at her aghast, hoping that I’ve either misheard her or that she’s giving rein to her usual mischievous sense of humour. Surely she can’t be going to give me ten, just for bringing a quarter-bottle of vodka to school. But there’s no indication that she’s joking - only amusement as she watches my reaction to this latest bombshell. She bends the cane almost into a complete circle and then lets go of one end. It springs back like a striking rattlesnake, quivering as if with excitement at the prospect of getting to work on my poor unprotected nether regions and I can see the tip shining as the light catches the coating of varnish. There’s no way that I’m going to be able to take ten with that without making a total exhibition of myself. Mrs Reid and mummy are going to be in for a treat.

Now that the full horror has sunk in, Miss Fisher continues.

“Since I don’t give ten very often, I like to make it a bit special. Instead of just bending over for me as usual, we’ll have you over the old whipping horse.” She points to the unfamiliar piece of furniture that caught my attention when I came into the office.

“I’m told that up to about twenty years ago it was always used for canings. I know from the old punishment books, and from what Mrs Reid tells me, that your mother got to know it pretty well when she was here, so you’ll be able to compare notes on the way home. It’ll give you a bit more support than if you were just bending over touching your toes as usual. If you grip your ankles firmly it might just help you to keep down for all ten, but I’ll have my strap ready as well just in case. I think there’s a good chance I might need it - don’t you?”

I don’t attempt to answer the question and she laughs.

“You look quite worried, Sylvie.” That must be the understatement of the year. “But it’s quite a long time since I gave anybody ten, and I’m rather looking forward to it, even if you’re not. I’m not going to say the traditional rubbish about it hurting me more than it hurts you, because we both know that I’m not going to feel a thing. If I do my job properly, however, you and this little beauty...” she flexes the Number Five in front of me again. “...are going to get to know each other so well that you’ll be the best of friends by the time you leave this room. Just remember that this isn’t just for the vodka; it’s for showing a bad example to the rest of the school, and we need to make sure that the other prefects understand how unacceptable we think that is.”

Suddenly she puts the cane down on the desk and jumps to her feet, and I notice that she’s changed her shoes. She’s now wearing trainers - presumably to ensure a good grip on the wooden floor. It’s not likely to make much difference, but is a typical Miss Fisher touch to increase even further my discomfiture.

“Enough of this conversation, delightful though it is. I’m sure that you’re keen as I am to get down to business. Have you made the necessary preparations under your skirt?”

I nod miserably.

“Excellent. Go and stand over there with your feet about eighteen inches apart and the front of your legs against the horse.”

I do as she says, shivering slightly as I take up my position.

“Lift up the front of your skirt and blouse and put them over the beam.”

I feel the cold polished leather covering press against the top of my bare legs.

“Now, bend over and grasp your ankles.”

I stretch out my arms but can’t reach my ankles because my feet are too far back.

“No, no. Bend your knees, shuffle your feet forward a bit, bring your stomach down to touch the top of the beam and try again.”

I do so and feel the cold leather surface again but now against the bottom of my stomach, just below the waistband of my skirt. This time I’m able to grasp the shiny black leather of my boots and do so with as firm a grip as I can manage. As soon as I do, I realise that I’m now bent over in such a way that my buttocks are thrusting back as if they’re absolutely longing for punishment. Try though I may, I won’t be able to shrink away from the cane or do anything to lessen its impact without letting go of my ankles which will guarantee the extra dose afterwards from the strap. I briefly wonder if mummy had the same problems in the sixties when she was over this beastly horse. She must have got it PD too, but was her arse forced to stick out like mine? Would she have been wearing boots (she often wears them now)? How much did she have to dance around afterwards? She always looks so mature and dignified that it’s hard to imagine her hopping around like mad, rubbing a frantically stinging bum. Did she ever find out just how badly a Number Five hurts? Did she ever get ten?

The two tripods supporting the beam are quite large and solid so I can see nothing on my left or right. My view’s now limited to the floor just in front of me, my boots and the front of my skirt. I groan silently as Miss Fisher moves up to me, lifts up the hem of my skirt and the tail of my blouse and pulls them high up my back. I feel a cold draught of air over my protruding naked posterior - the heating has now been off for at least an hour - and hear her feet move back a few steps as she views my undignified and apparently inviting posture. My face colours up with embarrassment as I realise that with my feet apart like this, I must be displaying the most private parts of my anatomy to her. The view seems to be to her satisfaction because she waits for some seconds before walking away. Then I hear her pick up the cane from the desk.

She comes back and pauses again behind me, swishing it through the air several times before she sets to work so that I can appreciate that it makes a deeper and more menacing sound than her usual weapon. Then at last she moves away to my right and I brace myself for the worst. The soles of her trainers squeak slightly on the floor as she gauges her position and then the rustle of her clothes warns me that she is preparing to strike.

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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