My girl was merely getting one caning, mind; hers was up for 12 of the best from every morning for a week, before classes. Were I the Headmaster in Pandora’s account, mind, I’d vary the punishment routine ever so slightly – the girl would report to me immediately on waking, in her dressing gown and pyjamas. The alarm call would be sounded at 7.15 a.m.; woe betide her were she to appear in my study a moment after 7.20.
She’d know the routine after the first morning: she’s remove her dressing gown and lay it carefully over the arm of my leather armchair. Her pyjama trousers (silk, striped) would be lowered to her ankles before she bent to touch her toes.
I’d doubtless pause to admire the quality of my handiwork from the previous days, the marks still clearly visible. (Headmasters are smug like that). And then I’d administer her dozen, making her continue the count from where she’d left off the previous morning – including any extra strokes she may have received to date. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty,…”
And then she’d would off to join the other girls in the communal showers, where – despite her embarrassment and her best attempts to hide her caned bottom from view – her stripes would doubtless be soothed and admired. Once dressed, she would find the hard benches in the school refectory to be particularly unforgiving, as she ate under my gaze as I dined at the top table.
And only then would the young lady get to go to class…