So inevitably it had come to this. I was sat in the Headmistress’s secretary’s office in the comfy chairs which I realised may not feel so comfy in about ten minutes time. For the first time in my life I was actually early for something, which is why I was there in the first place. The detention for persistent lateness had been commuted to 200 lines because I was needed for a school hockey match on the day the detention was scheduled, but with a warning that if I was late one more time I would have to go to the Headmistress for corporal punishment. The detention was commuted, but the signature slip was still sent home for my parents to sign, and Mum therefore honoured her promise to support school decisions by pulling down my pyjamas and plying my bare bottom with her slipper.

Now a potentially worse fate awaited, my stomach full of butterflies. This was my first formal corporal punishment at the school; punishment book, school record, signature slip for Mum to sign. I was hoping Mum would delay the follow-up for a few days until my poor bottom had recovered from what I was about to receive.

Then it started, the Headmistress’s voice had gone quiet, and now the first of what sounded like slipper hitting bottom could be heard from behind the closed door. Three strokes passed and then the first response from the recipient in the form of a muffled cry, the next a distinct yelp, and the fifth by an ‘aargh’, followed by a pause and words from the Headmistress which presumably translated into the seventh stroke at the end.

The secretary and I exchanged glances. She looked sympathetic but unfortunately it was unlikely she’d be able to intervene on my behalf. Before the sixth stroke landed the outer door opened and a distinguished-looking gentleman walked in carrying a briefcase. It seemed he, too, was early for a meeting with the Headmistress, Mrs Hastings, and the secretary advised him that she would be free in about ten minutes. There was a girl in at the moment, and then Jennifer would be going in. He came to sit beside me on the sofa with a brief smile, which I tried to return. The sixth stroke then finally landed to a loud grunt, followed quickly by number seven, and a substantial wail.

Two minutes later, the study door opened and out walked a lower sixth girl, very obviously trying to hold back tears as she walked stiffly across to the secretary’s desk to sign the punishment book. Because of her age, she was not issued with the signature slip for her parents to sign, whereas I would be. The gentleman surreptitiously watched the girl’s every move until she left the office, homing in on the fireball still burning under her skirt. He quickly extracted a folder from his briefcase and placed it over his lap, pretending to look through some papers contained within.

Mrs Hastings came to the door and beckoned me in; my time had finally come, the moment of truth, the point of no return. My legs would hardly carry me; my fear had reached a peak. I had hardly got through the door before tears welled up in my eyes. The lecture was brief; we both knew why I was there. The undressing was fairly quick too; blazer off, skirt off, and over the chair. As instructed, I bent over her table and gripped the far side with white knuckles. Then came the bit I had been warned about, the Mrs Hastings speciality. I felt her fingers inside the waistband of my knickers as she pulled them up tight into the crevice between my cheeks. Instantly, I felt the cooler air on my lower buttocks, and realised like every naughty schoolgirl before me that I was to receive the plimsoll, placed for my perusal just by my side on the table, across half bare cheeks. How quaint! The nightmare had turned into a horror movie. The good things about the knicker position were that it did just about preserve my modesty, although probably not the outline, and it meant that Mrs Hastings could access flesh for at least some of the spanking without having to stare at my undercarriage. So, as they say these days, a win-win situation!

I got the usual warnings about not moving, which I recognised even though it was my first time and I could hardly hear them above the rapid thumping of my heart. Then the tapping, one, two, three, slipper against bottom, and then with immense force it crashed down into me. I was expecting it to be painful, but I couldn’t expect it to be this bad. Hardly time to register and another stroke burst through me. I had had enough, two down and four to go, and then the third caught my lower cheeks direct, no protection, and I yelped out loud. The fourth followed up quickly and I shot to my feet, I couldn’t help myself. I was doing the dreaded dance, hands on both cheeks. Extra stroke earned; if I didn’t get back down there would be another one too.
My hands started gripping the far side of the table like clamps, forcing me to stay down and endure the rest of the thrashing. The tapping started again, as Mrs Hastings prepared for a very special fifth stroke which cut into me, shook my whole body and made me cry out loud. Number six followed up fast and furious with a stinging heat. I gasped but didn’t cry out, but I did on the next strike as one hand broke loose to try to soothe my tortured bottom. Against the rules, another stroke awarded, tap tap tap then it landed, harder than the others. I gasped, cried out and jerked forward, taking the table with me. It was over, I lay on the table in so much pain, and in so much shame for the ridiculous display I had presented.

Slowly I got up, painfully got dressed, heard the dire warnings of ever having to return to this place of torture. I walked stiffly to the door; it was almost as if the skin on my bottom wouldn’t stretch enough to let my legs work. As I walked slowly into the outer office the secretary again smiled sympathetically. Of course, they had heard everything and, along with everything else I had to contend with, I went bright red with embarrassment. Out of the corner of my tear-filled eyes, I felt the gentleman, whoever he was, watching me intently, homing in on my own personal fireball, under my skirt. He seemed to have even more folders on his lap than when I left. How he could have worked with that din going on I do not know!

I finally made it to the desk and the secretary gave me a pen to sign the punishment book, and handed me the slip to take home to my mother. I just prayed then and there that Mum would give my bottom a few days grace to get over this spanking before she started on it.

The buzzer rang and the secretary told the gentleman Mrs Hastings was ready for him, “OK Paul, you can go in now.”

As he headed toward the study I turned and noticed him walking stiffly through to Mrs Hastings’ office. Meanwhile, somehow, I had to get down the corridor to the toilets, some cold water, a mirror, and a chance to have a good cry