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Don't be late!

High heels hiding.

He'd been halfway into the history lesson - fascinating stuff about Pitt the Younger - when he suddenly spotted her shoes. Since when had high heels been permitted at Bexhill? Emma's explanation - that she had bought them when out with her parents last weekend and now she wanted to show them off - cut no ice whatsoever. Let them get away with an inch and they'd grab a mile. What next? Coloured socks? He told her to come up in front of the class and bend over the punishment stool. He fetched the classroom cane and lifted her skirt. 

And that's where he made the second discovery: no knickers! It might take five valuable minutes out of the lesson while he gave her the thrashing she deserved, but this was a question of nipping trouble in the bud. He doubted whether Emma, or any of those watching the stripes develop across her pale white bottom, would give him any problems for the rest of the term.

Waiting for it.

She'd really blown it this time. How could she have been so silly and let her temper run away with her, and with 'Whacker' Wilcox, the maths teacher, of all people? He was never slow to invite the girls to take their place over the punishment stool and she should simply accepted her fate when she was late with her homework yet again. But of all things, to start screaming at him that she hated maths, hated algebra, and hated homework! What had she been thinking of?

As soon as she'd had her rant she regretted it. 'Whacker' had just looked at her for a moment, tapping the leather strap against his hand. Then he'd pointed at the stool and ordered her to sit down. He'd placed the strap on her knees and told her to sit there and wait for him. He was going to see the Headmaster to ask for permission to give her twelve strokes, instead of the regulation six. Under the circumstances, he was bound to agree. She'd tried picking up the strap: it was heavier than she thought it would be and felt very, very stingy. Oh Lord! Twelve strokes with this thing across her bare bottom would be agony. She was pale with fear.

She could hear 'Whacker's' footsteps returning purposefully down the corridor.

The bottom of the garden

"Come for a walk in the garden," he'd said. I thought it sounded a bit ominous and I was soon proved right.

"Your mother tells me you've become very bratty recently. What have you got to say for yourself?"

"I've no idea what she means."

"Not helping around the house, being rude, not keeping your room tidy...I could go on."

"Why doesn't she deal with this herself? Why does she always have to drag you into these things?" I think I pouted. Unwise. We'd just got to the old stone well at the bottom of the garden. He sat down on it.

"She rather considerately asked me to bring you out here to do what I'm going to do. Would you rather I spanked you in the house, while your cousins are staying there? It would certainly be quite entertaining for them, wouldn't it?"

"You're not going to spank me out here, in the open air, where anyone might see? You're not, are you?"

He didn't answer, he just pulled me across his knee, jerked my panties down, and started laying into me. My God, it stung, but what really worried me was whether my cousins might be watching from an upstairs window.

Late home.

When her father said "Be home by midnight", he didn't mean 'Feel free to wander back in at three o'clock in the morning, rumpled and smelling of cigarettes and alcohol.' 

He had sat up half the night, growing angrier and angrier, so that when Melissa finally showed up, he was in a furious mood. Melissa had looked aghast when she saw him: she'd hoped to be able to sneak in quietly and concoct some sort of alibi before the morning. 

He brusquely told her to hang her dress on the washing line to let it air and get the stink of the nightclub out of it. Then he marched her straight up to her room, pausing only to collect his cane from the study.

The rest of the house was deathly quiet, but neither her mother nor her sister were sleeping: they were waiting for the crack of rattan across those pale cheeks, and the yell from Melissa as the first fiery stroke blazed across her bottom. There would be many more to come.