Poor Haron! There I was, transported in my dream on Sunday night from my lovely hotel suite in Madrid to the top of grand flight of portrait-lined stairs in an English public school. A gaggle of pupils walked up, fresh from rehearsing the school play. She was at the front, rubbing her bottom, looking utterly miserable.
“What’s the matter with you?” I asked, concerned.
“She was sent to the headmaster, sir,” the girl next to her proclaimed.
“She got the whack, sir,” said one of the boys, perhaps too gleefully. “And she’d already had the slipper from the director.”
No wonder Haron looked unhappy after her double punishment – and I knew that the headmaster would have been unsparing, administering his minimum six strokes, always hard, always on the bare, even with a good girl like Haron who’d never previously been caned.
—
I love dreams like that, with little glimmers of spanking scenes. No real detail – but just enough for me to remember, allowing me to sleepily fill in the details after waking.
Forgotten lines – having been warned carefully at the last rehearsal that she needed to study them carefully before the next – leading to the first whacking, over the director’s knee with his plimsoll, in front of the whole cast. A tantrum, in which she was rude to the director; a long pause, before he pronounced public sentence, “I think you’d better go and see the headmaster,” and hastily scribbled a note of explanation, of condemnation for her to take with her.
Her long, lonely walk through the empty corridors; the nervous knock on the door of the headmaster’s study; fidgeting whilst he read the note; her desperate pleas silenced as he took out the cane and told her that he took a very dim view of such behaviour; trembling as she positioned herself; the slow application of the six severe stripes making her gasp then cry.
I so want to give her a cuddle! Or play the scene in the study when I get home. Or both!