My Day as a 1950’s English Schoolgirl

A woman satisfies her longing to be disciplined for misconduct at school, many years before.

The second of May was a big day for me, on which I embarked with rather mingled feelings. I had arrived in town late in the evening of 30th April, not without having experienced a few surprises on the way, such as having a slightly exasperated bus driver inform me that most of the coins I still had in my purse from my last visit to the country several years ago were now useless. Fortunately, the notes I had obtained through a friend of my partner’s, who works at a bank, were all brand new, so no worries there.

The hotel I had booked at the recommendation of the gentleman with whom I had arranged for a role-play session was easily the nicest place I have ever stayed at. It had a truly unique atmosphere to it, and I instantly felt at home.

May Day, I had kept clear for crashing after the flight and, amazingly enough, the sun was shining throughout the day, allowing for long walks around town and through the pastures of its outskirts, which were full of life with a great many new-born lambs hobbling about, bleating at the top of their tiny treble voices. Whenever I felt my heart sink as my thoughts strayed to the event planned for the next day, I said to myself that even if the whole project was to end in a tragedy, I would always have a very fond memory of this wonderful day out in the sun, of the immensely green spring meadows, and of the sight and sound of those heart-warming little lambs.

On the ‘day of’, the above-mentioned gentleman picked me up from the hotel in his car. I had first come across his website in 2010. He was considerably leaner and shorter than the figure my imagination had built up of him over the years, wearing a three-part tweed suit and a flat cap. I had spent considerable time making myself familiar with local protocol on initial hellos but was met by him in accomplished Swiss style. Of course, there was no way for him to know I wasn’t the least bit Swiss. Luckily, the drive to his home was a short one, as I found it rather disconcerting to be sitting in the driver’s seat with no steering wheel in front of me or pedals at my feet, feeling the car move as if by magic.

Once arrived, we sat down at a table together, and he made sure he knew all he needed to know regarding my experience (zero), my expectations (no idea really) and limits (nothing can happen to my hands), and whether I would like to use a pseudonym. In a tone not unlike the one in which a surgeon had once described her plan for my forthcoming operation to me, he explained roughly in what elements the session would likely consist. Even though it felt drastically weird having a perfect stranger talk to me so openly and matter-of-factly about issues I had only ever talked about to myself, if at all, his voice and manner of speaking had a way of putting me profoundly at ease. I started to feel that I could trust this man. Eventually he told me his safety word, which would bring him out of character and end all proceedings immediately should I feel the need. When we then ascended to the ‘school’ on the top floor of his house, my nerves had settled considerably. I was collected enough to have no difficulty plaiting my hair and tying my tie, which had been one of the many things I had been worried about. After I had changed into my uniform, we exchanged last words out of character, before he disappeared from the room, asking me to give him one minute to become the headmaster, and then knock on his door.

I was surprised at the calmness that was starting to take room inside me. It was with almost no apprehension that I counted down the minute, went out into the corridor and knocked on that door. I then heard a boomed ”Wait, girl!”, after which there was a swishing noise, undoubtedly from a cane being rapidly moved through the air, probably with the intention of scaring me. Funnily enough, it didn’t have that effect at all; it was as if nothing could disturb the peacefulness that had begun to bud in my heart. Upon hearing ”Come!” I just opened the door and went in.

From then on, things evolved into something that was infinitely better than the most vivid of my dreams had been. The scenario I had submitted in advance reflected an incident that had occurred in my 10th year of school, when I created a cheat-sheet for my friend during a test, and upon being discovered uttered a terrible insult to the teacher, not realising I was actually saying those words out loud as opposed to merely thinking them. At the time, the teacher chose simply to pretend she hadn’t heard and, after confiscating mine and my friend’s tests, resumed her seat at the teacher’s desk showing no reaction. Back then of course I considered myself lucky to have gotten away with this, but deep down I never came to terms with the fact that no one seemed to mind this sort of behaviour, which even I couldn’t help but identify as unacceptable, and in the long run the whole incident had left me feeling considerably off balance.

Well, until now. The headmaster, standing against the window in a flowing black academic gown, had me stand in front of his imposing oak desk and relate the whole story. It took me a few moments to get fully into character; it did seem somewhat ironic, after all, that it had been I who had asked for this appointment and travelled a considerable distance to attend it. But once I had successfully blanked out this fact, I felt very much my younger self, and as such finally found myself in the situation I had so longed for then. Nonetheless, it was agony standing there, charging myself with the crime I had committed. When I had finished, he started going on and on about how helping someone during a test was plain cheating, how important it was to discern private thought from spoken word, and how disgusting the thing I had said was in itself. The best part of that was that he kept asking ”… do you hear?”, which gave me ample opportunity to say ”yes, sir”, a phrase that just as its counterpart ”no, sir” had a downright magical effect on me whenever I said it. I can only speculate as to why that might have been; perhaps it was simply that someone was finally accepting and absorbing the respect I had always wanted to pay my teachers but never could, for nobody expected it from a pupil at the time and addressing a teacher any other than as Mr or Mrs such-and-such would have been interpreted as mockery.

At some point he sat down on a chair he had set in the middle of the room, telling me to stand to his right. The physical process of getting into position over somebody’s knees was another thing I had been worried about. How on earth would I keep balance and avoid dropping down on them like a sack of potatoes? And again, I was surprised how easy it actually was. He said simply ”Over you go!”, and over his knees I went, without the least difficulty. It didn’t even feel awkward to be laying down on a stranger’s lap; once in position I felt quite comfortable. All the while continuing his rebuke of my past behaviour, he started spanking my backside over my gymslip, which hurt only mildly, as I was relieved to feel. After a while the gymslip was brought up, the swats now raining down on my knickers, before he announced he was now about to take these down. I intuitively lifted my pelvis a little to help him do that, which was another thing that surprised me about myself.

The instant just before the bare-bottom spanking began was a very special moment. I was as calm as could be, relaxing my body lying across his thighs, and waiting. This second of combined anticipation and apprehension felt wonderful. I knew I couldn’t do anything about what was to come, so resistance would have been as useless as my dated coins had been on the bus, and capitulation was the only option that seemed to make sense. So, I just let it happen. And happen it did. Those were pretty substantial swats pounding down on my skin in lush supplies, causing the pain to build up seriously. My body seemed to recognise this phenomenon from the under-water swimming I used to practise, for my brain started counting the thwacks, just as I would count my under-water strokes to take my mind off the pain building up in my muscles as they ran out of oxygen. Every 24 blows or so there was a short pause, during which I felt his hand move across my skin ever so gently, which felt incredibly nice. The whole procedure seemed to go on forever, fortunately with the breathers always occurring just when I thought I couldn’t bear the pain any more.

Finally, I was required to find my feet and pull my knickers up, face the wall and stand there momentarily. I heard him move about repositioning the chair behind me, and soon enough was ordered to turn around and bend over with my hands resting on the seat of the chair, to receive twelve with the slipper. The first six went over my knickers and I was to count them; then, having taken my knickers down to my knees, he counted the following six himself, with me repeating ”I am a cheat, and cheats never prosper” after hearing each number. Although the implement produced a rather spectacular thud each time it thumped down on my behind, the blows seemed to hurt way less than I had expected they would; but then I guess I was just too busy getting that sentence right every time to pay much attention to the discomfort the slipper was causing me. Then all of a sudden it was over and I had to stand against the panelling again, this time with the back of the skirt of my gymslip tucked into my belt, knickers still down at my knees, and hands on my head. The headmaster sat down at his desk, and as far as I could tell engaged in paperwork.

My rump was now starting to feel pleasantly warm; it was a feeling similar to the blissful exhaustion one might be filled with at the end of a long nature hike, only condensed, as it were, and contained in the area of my buttocks.

Before long the headmaster rose, telling me to make myself presentable and stand in front of his desk again. Now it was about my failure to distinguish between private thought and spoken word. He kept striding about while lecturing me, sometimes getting within inches of my ear; I felt like I was a small island in the midst of a stormy sea. At length I was instructed to go stand in the far corner of the room with my hands on my head, to meditate my shortcoming, and once ready I was to say ”Please, sir, I am ready for you to cane my backside now”. I almost exploded with apprehension standing in that corner.

When I finally had said the sentence, he commanded that I open the door in front of me and bring to him what I would find behind it. For a split second I thought he was joking, for I was standing in a corner with no doors in sight. Yet at second glance there appeared to be a teeny-weeny door in the panelling, which I duly opened to see a single cane hanging almost innocently from a hook inside a built-in cupboard. Despite the apprehension I had felt before, I was now quite composed. I took the cane off its hook, closed the door, walked over to the desk and placed the rattan on its surface as if that was something I did every day. He made me bend over the desk and tucked the back of my gymslip into my belt, telling me that this senior cane was supposed to teach me a lesson and that he wanted me to take this punishment well.

I was as poised as I ever had been, resting my forehead on the backs of my hands, waiting. I had no idea what kind of reaction to expect from my body; for all I knew I might jump up after the first stroke and dance a jig, I might scream, I might start sobbing, I might shout out horrible swear-words, or worst of all, I might fall out of character and fight back, as in hit the man who my body thought was attacking it. But if I lost command over my body and assaulted the gentleman playing the headmaster, I could not begin to imagine what would follow.

So, there I was with my upper body resting on the desk, breathing slowly and deeply, relaxing my bottom, awaiting the inevitable. And then it came. The first stroke over my knickers landed. My eyes closed slowly and I breathed out, wondering when the pain would finally hit home. When it didn’t seem to do that, I thought perhaps the knickers were muffling the momentum of the cane, and almost immediately said ”one, sir”. He seemed taken aback by the promptness of this and encouraged me to take all the time I needed. The first six strokes went by one by one, the pain staying at a quite bearable level. Then he lowered my knickers, informing me he would now count the next six strokes himself, and I was to say ”I must think before I speak” after hearing each number.

When the cane then touched down with full force on my bare skin, it was definitely something else. The noise it made sounded considerably louder and higher pitched than before, and I suddenly understood what people meant when they wrote of ‘searing pain’: the cane seemed to cut right through my skin and flesh, coming to a halt at a bone somewhere. However, I felt not the slightest urge to do anything about it, or even make a sound; I just kept breathing out after each stroke, saying the sentence, listening to his continued lecture, and waiting for the next stroke.

Then something happened. After the first two strokes my manner of waiting between strokes underwent a transformation. It became a feeling of, welcome, for want of a better word. Odd as it may seem, I was positively welcoming each new stroke, painful though every single one of them proved to be. I realised that for all these years I had been waiting for exactly this to finally happen to me, and it was a great relief to be here at last. The boundary, the final frontier I had been striving to reach all my youth, was now there right in front of me; I got an unambiguous message of ‘this far, and no further’. Rarely have I felt more in the right place at the right time, even if this was happening a quarter of a century after I would have wanted it.

When he gave me permission to rise, I was almost reluctant to get up from that desk. I re-arranged my clothing, and he now led the way to the classroom, where I first learnt how to sit down on a folding bench. It felt like Christmas. Whenever I had been to a museum or similar place where those old-fashioned school desks were on display, I had always wanted to sit down at one and play school, and now I was actually able and in fact expressly supposed to do exactly that. I was given a brand-new exercise book, a fountain pen and a ruler, and the lesson began. I had to write my name, my age and the subject ‘General Studies’ on the front cover of the exercise book as neatly as I could, while the headmaster momentarily left the room. Upon coming back, he went straight to the blackboard and made a mark in the upper left corner. I didn’t think much of that and continued painting my letters. When I was done, he disclosed to me I had just earned myself a demerit mark by not standing when the headmaster entered the room. Of course, I had no idea what a demerit mark meant in this context but didn’t want to make a fuss asking.

He then explained and dictated the three rules absolute of the school. A real dictation in English, and with a fountain pen. My, what a feast that was. Afterwards I had to stand up and read out loud what I had written. To conclude the lesson, I learnt what the demerit mark meant. It was dealt with in form of another spanking, first over my knickers, then on the bare, before I found myself bent over one of the desks and my backside made acquaintance with a leather strap. He counted the six strokes, with me saying ”I must stand when the headmaster enters the room” after hearing each figure. Even though its swats resonated quite impressively in the classroom and hurt decisively more than the hand spanking or the slipper had, the pain inflicted by the strap didn’t compare at all with that I had experienced from the cane a moment ago. It did however feel rather humiliating to be hanging across the narrow school desk with my rear end up and exposed.

That punishment accomplished, it was back to his study. I was instructed to stand in front of the large wooden clock in the corridor and not move until he would return to fetch me. Off into his study he went, closing the door behind him.

The next few minutes, standing there by myself, I had a chance to come up for air. Everything in and around me was so peaceful; the clock in front of me, the photographs on the walls around, the carpet under my feet; and I was there in the middle of everything, at peace with the world; no wishes, no regrets. My mind was a mountain lake on a windless day.

The headmaster re-appeared with a tape measure in his hand, saying he wanted to check the length of my gymslip. He had me kneel down yet found no need even to unroll his tape for the hem of my skirt just grazed the floor, which meant the length was perfect. Back inside the study he handed me my exercise book, which showed full marks and a golden star sticker under my writing. I couldn’t help smiling at the sight of this. He was however very intent on imparting that these were the kind of grades he expected me to make from now on, and if he personally had to see to that happening, he most certainly would. This was extremely nice to hear, for in my real life nobody had ever seemed to care even remotely about my school marks, least of all my teachers, or even my parents; to this day I have old report cards void of their signature. And now here there was an adult telling my seventeen-year-old self in no uncertain terms that he was far from indifferent to the quality of my performance at school. So, this was yet another thing I had always wanted to happen.

The last section was about my having damaged the reputation of the school by cheating at that test and insulting that teacher. I was to assume position with my hands on the seat of the chair again, for another dose of the strap; twelve on the bare. The curious thing about the strap was that while its thwacks certainly hurt, somehow the pain they evoked couldn’t seem to surpass the manageable. The situation resembled the one when during summer I would sleep with the window open and be woken by the birds early in the morning, their singing made to fit my ears, as it were, so however loudly even the biggest flock of those birds would chirp, they would never reach an irritating level of volume. Just so, that strap seemed to be made to fit my buttocks perfectly, and even the dreaded last stroke, although applied with great force, couldn’t break that perfection.

What followed next is hard for me to put into words. I was standing against the panelling with my bare bottom on display, knickers at my knees and hands on my head. After a moment of silence had passed, the headmaster ordered that I take off my knickers, fold them neatly and place them on the leather armchair next to which I happened to be standing. I just carried out his instructions as usual. Then, after I had resumed position with my hands on my head, he deftly proceeded to tuck the rest of my skirt into my belt very carefully. A tidal wave of humiliation washed over me. Yet funnily enough, I had no desire to prevent any of this from happening; I just let myself be carried away by that wave. In a voice even more no-nonsense than before, if that was possible at all, he then commanded me to turn around. It didn’t occur to me to disobey or even delay this order. It was almost as if my body was acting on my behalf, and the rest of me just followed suit. He made me stand right in front of his desk, hands still on my head, before leading me to the back of the room by my earlobe, where I was to place myself next to a chesterfield sofa, my back to the room. He subsequently disappeared from my field of vision, and silence filled the place. I was to say ”Please, sir, I am now ready for you to punish me”, once I felt I was up for it.

This transition was a wonderful moment. I just stood there, breathing calmly, letting everything be just as it was. I felt much like at the rare good concert, when the music makes everyone in the room connect with each other and the whole world, creating a moment out of all time, when the great harmony of the universe becomes palpable. Far-fetched as that may sound, I am afraid it is the only way I will ever be able to describe what went on inside me at that point.

When I ultimately had said the sentence, he came over and had me bend over the chesterfield for twelve strokes of the cane. Again, I was to tell the first six, after which he would count the second six, with me saying ”I must not be a disgrace to my school” after hearing each figure. After everything my backside had sustained that morning, each one of these strokes hurt quite substantially. It felt as if he was targeting to hit the exact same spot over and over again, and I wished nothing more than for the cane to wander off to unscathed parts of my skin. In fact, such was the pain that I wanted to shout out that sentence and then some words at the top of my voice every time, but I suddenly felt a survival instinct telling me it would be wise not provoke my tormentor even in the slightest, be that by shrieking, swearing, crying, or even raising my voice. It took all my strength of will to utter only the words I was required to say, get them out in as neutral a voice as possible, and keep completely quiet otherwise. Notwithstanding that this exercise of will-power was sheer torture, it felt amazing to finally come into the punishment I should have received all those years ago.

At long last I was allowed to rise, put my knickers back on and pull down the skirt of my gymslip, before being ordered to stand in front of that desk one more time, and after one last reprimand I was dismissed.

Out in the corridor, having closed the door of the study, I would have performed a somersault and at least three saltos had there been room for that. I changed back into my everyday clothes and became my present-day self, before going back to the study as agreed beforehand. The headmaster had disappeared and sitting on the chesterfield was the gentleman with whom I had been playing. He rose, and we met in a long heartfelt embrace. I sat down in the armchair opposite, and after a lovely chat he gave me a lift to the bus stop as I had to be on my way to the airport, and after another firm hug, we parted.

At the end of a smooth flight, my partner met me at the airport late at night, and as we were both overtired we just drove home and collapsed into bed, no questions asked. The next morning however when she inspected my backside by daylight, she wanted to take me to a doctor and sue the man who had done this to me, for my rump looked quite horribly bruised. Strangely enough though, it didn’t feel horrible at all. Quite to the contrary, I felt hardly any pain, and what little soreness was left did actually feel rather pleasant.

The bruising healed steadily, and ten days later was completely gone. For several days after the role-play session I was in the best of spirits, and even my partner, who had held out quite some hope that one real ordeal of corporal punishment would cure my almost lifelong fantasies thereof, had to admit that the project had been a major success, albeit not in the sense that she had hoped it would be.

I had had no idea I had any of this in me, and it will take time for both myself as well as my partner fully to come to terms with the fact that I seem to be ‘one of those people’. Nonetheless, I have already set my next appointment with the same gentleman for a few months’ time, and while that will certainly be no walk in the park, I’m very much looking forward to it, weird though that may sound.

CMH


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