As I mentioned last week, our friend Martha and I were summoned in front of the Housemaster for a uniform inspection, and to discuss the various sins that had been reported by other teachers.
We admitted to having been seen drunk and disorderly at a ball the previous term. Martha was sentenced to four strokes for this; I was a prefect, and thus got six.
Added to these were the strokes for our uniform infractions: I had a wrong hair grip (a genuine mistake: I’m not yet used to having my hair at a length that requires grips, so I didn’t think twice about picking up a rather ornate, inappropriate clasp), and got one stroke for that. Martha had some sort of complicated issues with her shirt – lack of button, messed up collar, things like that – and her socks were not pulled up properly. She got two additional strokes.
While Martha bent over for her caning, bravely taking the first turn, I caught myself on a completely inappropriate thought. You would imagine that I would be full of compassion for my friend. Right?
Or at least that, with seven strokes to come, I would focus on the painful caning I was about to get.
Well, no. In fact, all I could do was look at Abel – dressed splendidly in a suit, an academic gown and a brand new, never-before-worn mortarboard – and think: “Oooh boy, that Housemaster is so hot. He’s hot, hot, hot. Will you look at that. Mrrr-eow.”
I might have day-dreamed through Martha’s entire caning like that.
Obviously, my own punishment, which followed in due course, woke me right up: there’s nothing that makes you remember your priorities like seven slashes of the cane over your white cotton knickers.* Still, I was quite surprised to have become so distracted.
Oh, well. If spanking play brought no surprises any more, what would be the point of following the same familiar tracks?
* Except maybe those same strokes delivered on the bare, but the knickers were hitched right up anyway, so I don’t know about that.