Until you’re sorry

She stood before the housemaster, for the third time in a week. He opened the punishment book:

Monday: repeated talking in the library during prep; insolence to the librarian: three strokes

Wednesday: fighting in the corridor: four strokes

“And here we are on Saturday evening, and Mr White catches you unpacking bottles of vodka in the dorm…”

“Please, sir… I.. I mean, girls have parties occasionally, right?”

“And schools have rules. And punishments… I think you know the procedure by now.”

And so she bent stretched out over his desk, knickers removed and skirt lifted. “I’m sorry, sir…”

“We’ll see. I don’t think it would be a good for a girl to have three entries  in such a short space of time in the records. So we’ll deal with this slightly differently.”  He closed the punishment book, and slid it back into his desk drawer. “No set number of strokes. I’m going to cane you until I’m sure you are sorry.”

She tried not to count, and lost track of the tally anyway after the fourth. She tried to be brave, yet tears soon flowed. And once she was sobbing, the oh-so-hard strokes were accompanied by his hard-to-hear words about his surprise and his disappointment in her.

“Six more strokes.” Pushing her to the limit, beyond. And then his calm instruction: “Stand up, get dressed.” She did so gingerly; he continued: “I don’t want to see you back here in these circumstances. If I do, then I shall send you to the headmaster with the suggestion that he cane you in assembly, in front of the other girls. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir. I’l try, sir. Really…”

“Let’s hope so. Now: off you go…”