One squabble too far.

He'd had enough of their interminable squabbling. They were both old enough to know better than to spend their time winding each other up, but no: all through supper one or the other had insisted on needling her sister. Both he and their mother had told them to knock it off, but after a couple of minutes of good behaviour they would be at it again. 

So he'd run out patience, sent them both up to their rooms, and finished the meal amidst stiff and forced conversation with his wife. Now they'd finished the washing up and she had said "OK, you'd better go and do what's necessary. It serves them right." He'd collected the paddle from his study and gone to Catharine's room. On the way, he told her younger sister Linda to join them. Linda had appeared from her room wearing sports clothes and claiming she was about to go out jogging.

"Fine idea," said her father, "but before you go, take off your shorts and trainers and wait there in the corner while I deal with Catherine."

He threw the elder girl over his knees, dragged down her tights, and started spanking first the right cheek and then the left. As her bottom reddened, Catharine squealed, kicked her legs, and tried to put her hand in the way. This simply resulted in the smacks becoming harder.

In her corner, Linda gently ran her fingers over her still-unmarked bottom. She wasn't looking forward to the next few minutes.

Extra for Anna.

Bexhill School Headgirl Flo surveyed the three bottoms she'd just tanned. They might have been seniors but the way they had been behaving in the showers - indulging in a full-scale water fight - they deserved to be treated as they had been. Now Flo pondered whether to give Anna, the girl on the right, two more. She was sure that Anna was the ring-leader and deserved an extra thrashing and anyway there was that rumour that Anna actually liked being spanked.

As Headgirl, Flo had the unique privilege of being able to carry and use a cane, subject to some restrictions, one of which was that she could hand out a maximum of six strokes. However, she could usually get away with giving a couple more if she claimed the victim had moved or funked a whack by putting her hands in the way. Flo made up her mind.

"Right, you two can get down," she tapped the cane lightly on the two behinds nearest her. "Anna, stay in place. I haven't finished with you yet: you know why. Now stick your bottom right out." She laid the cane across the exact centre of Anna's cheeks, where there was still a small area of unblemished skin. The two others stood back, transfixed, gently massaging their blazing backsides.

(Flo and Anna appear in the Bexhill School series of books)

The bite of the cane.

There were a few girls, who - never having felt the rattan across their backsides - denied that a caning could be as painful as people claimed. Emily was one of them. She scoffed at the howling that could be heard from within  the head's study as the whack of the cane across bare cheeks echoed down the corridor. "Sissies," she would mock them, as they emerged red-eyed and rubbing their bottoms, "drips, weeds, it can't hurt that much."
She herself had only been spanked twice: once with a hairbrush by the Deputy Head, and once with a slipper by her Dormitory Captain. On both occasions, although she would have denied it, she herself had yelped loudly as each smack landed.
Her under-estimation of the efficacy of rattan on bare skin led her to take chances that a more prudent girl would have avoided. Thus, when she was caught out of bounds buying sweets in the local shop, it was with some surprise and alarm that she found herself bending over the Head's desk, her knickers around her thighs, listening to the swish of approaching doom.
'I'm sure this can't be too bad,' she thought to herself as she felt the cane tapped against her bottom. 'It may sting a bit, but probably no more than the hairbrush.'
She sensed the cane being drawn back. 'If I grip tightly on to the edge of the table, I'll be able to get through this with no trouble. I'll show them.'
She heard the sighing swish of the descending rattan, the loud crack of the impact.
"OOOOUUUUUWWW!!"

(For what happens to girls who get caught out of bounds, read the Bexhill School series - see below)

The price of carelessness.

 

Miss Holloway had been an exemplary school secretary until just a couple of weeks ago, but recently her work had become sloppy. The headmaster had cautioned her, but now -  just as he wanted to leave early - it had happened again. Twice he'd had to send back the letter she'd typed to Sir Miles Ransome, the most prestigious parent Bexhill could boast, and he'd been just about to sign the third draft when his eye caught the salutation: 'Yours sincerly'. He was furious. He summoned the wretched secretary into the office, waved the letter in front of her, and told her that her services were no longer required. He'd find a new secretary who could do the job properly. Miss Holloway promptly broke down, pleading with him not to fire her.

The fact was he didn't really want to lose her, not least because he fancied the pants off her. A thought - a really wicked thought - occurred to him. Did he dare implement it? He took a deep breath. 

"Miss Holloway, if one of the girls repeatedly produced careless work, after I'd admonished her, what would happen to her?"

"I suppose you'd punish her, sir."

"How?"

"Well, if she'd been warned previously, the next time she'd probably be spanked."

"Precisely. So, Miss Holloway, I'll give you a choice. You can either clear your desk and not return on Monday morning, or accept a chastisement."

The secretary blushed deep pink. "But...sir...I mean..."

"Go away and re-type that letter and get it right this time. When you bring it back, let me have your answer."

Five minutes later, she tapped nervously on the study door and brought in the corrected letter. The headmaster took it, read it carefully, and signed. He looked up.

"The other matter - did you decide?"

Miss Holloway's face was scarlet with embarrassment.

"Yes sir...I...I'll take the spanking please."

"Very well." The headmaster got up and came around the side of his desk. He turned one of the guest chairs around and sat down.

"Over here and pull down those trousers and your pants, they offer too much protection. This will be on the bare. Come on, get on with it. Now, over my knees. That's right, and keep your hands away from your bottom. Are you ready?"

(Miss Holloway appears in the Bexhill School series of books - see below)

Pinned down.

I'd gone to the classroom early to prepare the blackboard before the lesson. Immediately I walked in, I knew that something was up: three girls were clustered around my desk, giggling. As soon as they saw me, they shot bolt upright, looking guilty.

"OK, what's up, girls?" I asked in a smiling, friendly way. All I got in response was some shuffling and nervous glances. I looked around my desk, but at first nothing seemed amiss. Then I saw it: a large, shiny drawing pin placed on the seat of my chair.

"All right - which of you put it there?" I demanded. More fidgeting but no answers. The wretched girls have this code of ethics that rivals the mafia's omerta rules: they will never, ever tell on each other. I suppose it's noble, but it's very frustrating when you're trying to uncover the culprit.

"One more chance," I frowned at them, "which of you put that pin there?" Total silence.

I went over the cupboard and fetched the classroom cane - it's thin and whippy and attracted nervous looks as I walked back, swishing it.

"Last chance." I tried to look each of them in the eye, but they were all studying their shoes. No one spoke.

"All right, bend over my desk, all three of you. Skirts up."

The desk is wide. They lined up along it, lifted up their skirts, and slowly bent over, their fingers grasping the far edge of the wooden surface.

I gave each of them three sharp whacks over their regulation cotton briefs. Every stroke produced a yelp of pain.

"Stand up, face me." They got up and turned around, clutching their bottoms. Three sets of tear-filled eyes looked at me. I flexed the cane in what I hoped was a threatening manner.

"Who put that pin on my chair?" It came out as a kind of hiss. No response, except a couple of sniffs.

Well, I can't back down now without losing face, and that would be unconscionable. There's not much choice. I'll have to tell them to get back over the desk, knickers down this time, and give each of them three more really fierce strokes on the bare. 

They're going to have to learn that loyalty sometimes has it's price, a rather painful price.

TV is bad for you (or at least, your bottom)

The strict rule when Debbie was staying with Aunt Alyse was: no TV until after all the homework is done.
So when the aunt returned unexpectedly early and Debbie was perched in front of the box watching Coronation Street, it was not surprising that Aunt Alyse asked to see the completed schoolwork. Of course it wasn't 'completed'; it wasn't even even started.
This was the bit Debbie almost hated most: the moment when Aunt Alyse told her to go and fetch the hairbrush. It was an evil implement, long and stingy. It lived in the second drawer down in Aunty's wardrobe.
When she got back with it, Aunty would - as now - be sitting on a chair. She'd silently hold out her hand for the brush. Debbie knew what had to happen next: she'd have to peel down her panties, and lower herself over Aunty's  lap. Then she'd feel her skirt being folded up, the air cool against her bare backside. That was the moment Debbie would let go of her aunt's knee and put her hands on the floor or grip the legs of the chair..
All this seemed to take ages: the awful prelude to what was about to happen. Any second Aunty would start. The whacks would rain down, each cheek addressed in turn, each smack of the wood against Debbie's reddening bottom feeling like the sting of a bee. She knew that within a minute she'd be howling and kicking, but the spanking would go on and on and on.
How she wished she wasn't addicted to Coronation Street.

(The photo is probably from Nu-West/Leda. Acknowledged with thanks to this seminal site)

Revenge of the Housemistress

 

"How dare you call me 'Thunder-thighs'! I heard what you whispered to your silly friends as I passed you in the corridor and how they giggled at your so-called wit. Well, this will teach you to make fun of your Housemistress! And the other little twerps can expect the same! You're going to learn respect even if it has to be thrashed into you! Now get your hands out of the way!"

Moral: free speech only goes so far. Making fun of authority figures can have painful results.