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Contributor ~ Robbie

Anna and I, continued

….Part Two

After what seem an eternity there were footsteps down the corridor and Miss Kenworthy appeared in the doorway,

“Are you ready, Florence?”

“Yes, Miss Kenworthy. I am ready.”

Actually I was not sure what being ready meant in my case. Being an adult did not excuse me from the fundamental rule the school had about baring, and I had just signed away any thought of exemption. But should I be ready bared or should I let Miss Kenworthy have the pleasure of exposing me? In the end I chose the second option, and was wearing only a cotton top and panties as Miss Kenworthy lowered the cane from the hook.

Miss Kenworthy summoned me to her, put the cane down for a moment and eased her hands into my panties, then lowered them so slowly and sensuously, her elegant fingers lingering on my skin as she slid them round on my bottom cheeks, that I felt breathless with anticipation. Once I had felt her hands against me, I was in a state of irrevocable submission. She left her hands there a long time, then slowly withdrew them andgestured towards the bench. I lay along it, my bare bottom a clear target tingling uncontrollably in position.  She picked up the cane and lay it across my bottom for a while in the way she always did. (Anna told me that this had been the moment the tears welled up for her, and so it was with me.) 

A few minutes later – though it seemed an eternity – and sixcracks of the cane later, I was overcome with tears, as matron had predicted. Now I understood how my contemporaries had spoken so fearfully and reverentially of an imminent visit to Miss Kenworthy. I have been caned by other disciplinarians (I may tell you about them some time), but these strokes were like nothing before. Another six followed – after the pause, these are the most painful. She delivered every stroke with a quick sharp flick, which with a thin cane produces such an intense sting that it is impossible to remain silent. The first few strokes each drew a gasp, the next a groan, and in the final six a series of cries that must have been heard all over the building (as I later learned, they were), as a warning to all of the dire consequences of displeasing the headmistress.

The end of the punishment was abrupt – as it always is – and (as I could see in one of the mirrors) Miss Kenworthy stood looking calmly – even solemnly – down and holding the cane with both hands across her front.

The pain was extreme, the sense of shame overwhelming. 

Finally Miss Kenworthy spoke. 

“You will stay here until tomorrow. You will be alone and the normal rules will apply. It has to be that way, and I will leave the cane here. Your next punishment will be at 9 a.m. sharp. So be ready for me. It will be the birch, and there will bewitnesses.”

Witnesses! The presence of an audience, and the appearance of the birch with all the symbolism it embodied, would deepen the shaming even further.

She put the cane back on the hook and briskly left the room. I was already shaking in a convulsion of tears.

A little later matron came into the room quietly and found me lying naked face down on my bed, sobbing.

“I heard it all, Flo. It sounded strict and now I can see it was. I’ve brought the cream.”

“Oh, matron. She totally became the headmistress again. I could sense the metamorphosis as soon as she saw my submissive posture and took the cane down from its hook.”

Matron looked sombre.

“You remember Flo, when the hook was empty, you knew that someone might be being caned.”

“And you listened out for the strokes. Sometimes they never came.”

“Like lightning without the thunder.”

I was across Matron’s lap while she applied the cream. As she was finishing I wanted so much for her not to miss the chance to transform her rubbing into the spanking I craved. I must have communicated this to her with my unmistakeably suggestive body movements because magically after the tiniest of pauses I felt the first smack – and it was heaven.There are few sensations as exquisite as that produced by a firm hand brought down a few times (or more than a few) against the whole surface of a recently caned petite bottom such as mine, just hard enough to sting slightly without quite being painful and administered in time with a strict scolding. Matron could be strict. And she could really spank. It stung after the cane but I loved it.  I mentally counted every one of the twenty smacks. I murmured “don’t stop” and waited for more. “More tomorrow” was her only reply.

It left Matron with sticky hands from the cream. She had used both hands in her usual manner: when one grew warm the other brought a frisson of coldness, but it required a deft movement to avoid both of us tumbling to the floor, which would rather have broken the spell! (This did not happen, although it did once or twice on other occasions I could tell you about.)

She went to rinse her hands and was soon back, looking thoughtful.

“Miss Kenworthy wants me to be available in the morning. There is a special bench, and I will be needed to hold you in position.”

“For the birch?”  I did not need an answer.

*****

I did not sleep well that night. Matron’s cream soothed a little but I was still very sore as I lay naked on my front. I had not felt like this for a long time, and the feeling brought back to me all the emotions that had lain quiescent over the years. I slipped on a tee shirt and lay in a foetal position.

I managed to doze for a while in the small hours, until the alarm of my mobile sprang to life and dragged me into consciousness. With the horror of sudden remembrance I was aware that in a few hours I would face another – even more severe – punishment.

There was a knock on  the door. I thought, surely not yet? But it was matron, holding a slipper.

“Some of the girls liked me to give them a warm-up before they were punished. It helps with the birch, just a little. I did it with Anna. Miss Kenworthy has agreed ….”

Anna hadn’t told me about the warm-up. Evidently some of the girls went to see Matron for the slipper even when they didn’t need to, because it soothed them. 

Later Anna told me that Miss Kenworthy instructed matron to administer the slipper as it would be extra painful on a bottom recently caned and would intensify the effect of the first strokes of the birching to come. But that was not my experience and I am sure Anna was out to tease. 

“Thank you, Matron.” I decided to comply, lay on my front and pulled my tee shirt up.

Matron slippered me beautifully, all on the same spot and hard enough for an acute sting and a sensation in my genital areathat brought me deliciously to the brink of orgasm without spilling over. 

Then I remembered that matron had slippered me once when I was a girl at the school. I had missed a dental check and theschool was extremely strict about such matters. I had bunked off and was found hiding in an empty storeroom. Matron offered me the choice of a bare-bottom spanking from her or being taken to Miss Kenworthy. She knew, of course, which I would choose. 

Matron said “there, the birch won’t feel so bad now. And yes, I do remember.”

“I cried, more for the shaming ….”

“That’s the way it is, Florence. That’s what corporal punishment is all about.”

Matron was still in the room when Miss Kenworthy arrived. She looked hard at me. Her transformation to headmistress was complete.

“Come with me Florence.”

*****

As Miss Kenworthy led me along the corridor I surmised that she was taking me to a punishment room, which would be better equipped for what was to come.

We stopped outside the dreaded PR1, famous for the cracks of the cane that could be heard during the punishment hour – famous too as the place where occasionally the birch wasadministered at the end of the day – always with a notice pinned to the door naming the miscreant and the offence.

Miss Kenworthy took a key, unlocked the door, and went in.

“Wait outside a moment, Florence.” 

I waited a long time; I am sure it was an important part of the punishment. As I stood there some girls and a young woman (surely it was Charlotte!) came to the door and were let in. They were surely the witnesses. So indeed, I was to be formally birched.

A while later the door opened, and Miss Kenworthy appeared.She held the notice in her hand and pinned it carefully, making sure it was straight. It read “Florence Park, would-be escapee”. (Please don’t laugh at my signpost of a name, I have been teased about it often enough by Anna.)

“Come in now Florence. We are ready for you.”

There in the room, in a semicircle, stood the girls and women I had seen. (Yes, it was Charlotte. I forced a weak smile but she was looking down.) Matron stood in the middle of the circle, and before them was the bench, long, low, with a raised middle section whose purpose was clear. To the left, at the side of the room, stood Miss Kenworthy, holding the birch. It was made of six willow twigs (in season again; I checked the number) and was expertly bound with twine. This was an implement that would not fail and come apart as some notoriously had in the past; it would last out until it had done its work and I had felt it maybe fifty or a hundred times (in the event, nearer the latter than the former).

On a table by the window lay the punishment book, open at the page that recorded my name. There was a pen beside it, ready for the record to be completed in due course.

The birching bench awaited me. I wore only a shirt that didnot reach my middle, so that my bottom was completely exposed. It was already reddened from the slipper that matron had used on me. The discipline team had laid a blanket along the top of the bench to protect my front; obviously no such protection was offered for my other side, which tingled with vulnerability.

I had seen the bench in use for Lucy and knew what I had to do. I walked over to it, got into position beside it, then lifted myself on to the top part, put my legs over and slid down so that my bottom was on the raised part halfway along (this isapparently called the support). After a while Charlotte (I think it was) came round and raised the support to its highest position, recommended for the most effective application of the birch.

Miss Kenworthy began the ritual. “You will receive about ahundred strokes Florence; I will continue the punishment until I judge that you have been punished enough according to your demeanour and condition. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Miss Kenworthy.”

“The strokes will be slow and steady – about two a minute. They will all be on your bottom. You may request a pause by raising your hand upright. You will be allowed two pauses and these will last for 30 seconds. Other than that the strokes will continue until I decide to stop. Appeals for the punishment to stop will be ignored. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Miss Kenworthy.”

“The punishment will last for about an hour. It is extremely important that you do not interrupt, although of course you may cry and make any sounds in reaction to being punished. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Miss Kenworthy.”

“The witnesses are here to observe the punishment but will not be involved in administering it. I alone will be birchingyou. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Miss Kenworthy.”

Miss Kenworthy smiled that special smile of hers that presaged a painful outcome.

“In a moment you will raise your right arm. When you are ready to receive your punishment you will lower it and I will begin. At that point you will be subject to the rules I have mentioned. If you break any of these rules, or show bad behaviour, the punishment may be extended or given on the backs of your thighs. This is extremely painful. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Miss Kenworthy.”

“Now raise your arm.”

My nerves had left me too weak to make that simple movement without effort. I raised my arm slowly, pointing to the high ceiling of the building, then after a pause I lowered it. The point of no return.

I felt the willow twigs being placed on me, and I felt them being raised. I waited for them to fall again, but instead I felt them being brushed slowly back and forth then being tapped several times. Then just as I was losing concentration and beginning to wonder if the exercise was after all just an elaborate hoax, and maybe I would be released amid hugs and laughter, the first stroke came all of a sudden, spreading itself across my skin, taking my breath away. 

It is difficult to describe what a birching is like to anyone who has not experienced one. Lucy and Anna had both told me how the deceptive first strokes were followed by a rapidly intensifying crescendo of pain as the twigs did their work right across both cheeks. I was sobbing before we were halfway through. Then, just as I thought I could not bear any more, the strokes came harder and faster. I shrieked so hard that Miss Kenworthy paused for a moment. But only a moment. The birching continued. I was determined not to request the pauses as I was sure they would only make it seem worse. Then finally, as I was on the point of shrieking my repentance and reaching for a hand to hold, … it stopped.

“That is enough Florence.” Miss Kenworthy spoke kindly. “You have received over a hundred strokes and have been immensely brave. Lie there for a while and then you will have an hour’s quiet time. Matron will rub in some cream later.”One of the girls came over to me and held my hand. It wassuch a sweet gesture and it touched me deeply.

While this happened, Miss Kenworthy walked over to the table by the window, perused the open punishment book for a while, then wrote in it the record of my punishments. She always regarded the punishment record as a private matter and offenders were not permitted to see it; but despite this harshrule I later had a chance to read the entry:

Florence Park, twelve severe strokes of the cane and a hundred of the birch with her bottom bared, administered according to school rules as retrospective discipline long overdue for lapses from her usual good behaviour.

Like Miss Kenworthy herself, it was strict but fair.

I had never known Miss Kenworthy so strict. I now realised that I had indeed been her favourite and like all favourites needed to be punished the hardest. I knew that she loved me. 

The dorm now had a few more girls staying and I was given a private room. I was glad to be spared the need to give an explanation of my situation. (Later Anna told me that she heard from Charlotte (I wonder when?) about how severe my birching had been. Anna sent me flowers and said we must meet. Of course we must meet – maybe the three of us.)

There was another reason for the privacy. That evening Miss Kenworthy came to my room. I slept soundly that night.

*****

Some time later, Miss Kenworthy contacted me again. When we met we spoke and acted like the adults we were, as though the events in the schoolroom had never happened. I supposed that for Miss Kenworthy, her resolution had been achieved.

For Anna too, though for me not quite. My feelings of submission have subsided, but flare up intermittently.

Finally I made a decision. I would meet again once a year, on the anniversary of my birching, with Miss Kenworthy. And her bowls. I wrote to her and made the proposal. She has notyet replied, but I am sure she will agree. Anna thinks so too, and we are the best of friends, despite her bouts of mischief – which will get her into serious trouble one day.

Meanwhile the Punishment Book, which has so many stories to tell,  is back in its drawer – for now.

All the best, hope you enjoyed it.

Robbie.