If Rachel had been somewhat surprised earlier, this time the fierce cut of the switch had the effect of an electric shock.
"AARGHH!!"
She screamed and bolted upright, her hair flying, her back arched and her hands racing back to try and cool the sudden fire streaking across her bum. To no avail, of course. She continued less noisily, "Ow! Ow!" and fell forward again, half upright, hands on the table, her head nodding and shaking furiously.
"Yes, it hurts," said her mother firmly, "it's supposed to hurt ... and please remember that you thoroughly deserve this." Rachel hardly heard her. For these moments it was unbearable and she didn't know where to put herself. She tried to gain control. She started breathing fast, and fell forward on to her elbows. Sweat had broken out all over her body. Her bum felt like it had been sliced open with a sword. Her hands went back to hover impotently over her buttocks, wanting, but afraid, to touch. Gradually the intolerable level of the pain gave way to a burning, stinging throb that she could isolate in her mind and she subsided to the tabletop, sighing deeply.
Mrs Thomas knew she'd put more zest into that stroke than intended. And it had landed right on top of the first stroke earlier. She'd watched as the skin along the line of impact had first puckered, forming rows of tiny bumps, then turned into vivid red parallel lines the width of the stick itself. The last inch where the end of the switch had landed was emerging as a rectangle of darker red.
"Two more, and then we are done." Rachel groaned, and gripped the sides of the table as if her life depended on it. She let out a big breath and waited tensely.
Her mother didn't tap this time, but, like a golfer preparing to drive, held the switch an inch from her daughter's skin before drawing back to deliver the next stroke. It whistled down with firm intent, if not quite as fast or hard as the previous, and dug into Rachel's bottom just above the earlier middle stroke. Rachel's head jerked up, her face a picture of pain, her eyes scrunched closed, her mouth agape, but then she gritted her teeth and bore it, emitting only a sort of gurgling sound before she slumped down again, wiggling her bottom as if to shake off the row of angry wasps who were busily engaged with her rear. Tears - of sheer pain rather than self-pity - fell from her cheeks on to the surface of the kitchen table, and a shudder ran through her body, emanating from her lower back.
Her mother gave her time to recover, once again inspecting her handiwork: another pair of deep red tramlines adorned her daughter's backside, though the tip of the switch had not dug in so fiercely this time. She allowed herself a moment's indulgence in a feeling of pride: at the accuracy and appropriateness of the punishment she was meting out, saving her husband the trouble; but also at Rachel's fortitude. She had to restrain herself from comforting her daughter. There was, after all, one more to come. And then her mood switched again, and she thought, No! She's gone too far, and she needs to be taught a lesson she won't forget. The spirit of Miss Bentley entered her being; the strength of Miss Bentley surged in her arm, and, squeezing her lips together in concentrated effort, she stood back, raised the switch far above her head and thrashed it down with all her force on to Rachel's naked bottom.
That fearsome swish and the crack of the supple stick striking the bare flesh were followed by an eerie pause. Mrs Thomas pulled away, slightly shocked at herself. Then Rachel let out a prolonged groan of agony that rose into high-pitched broken sobs. She rose up and clutched her buttocks with both hands, squeezing at the edges with the tips of her fingers, moaning in pain. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, her hands rubbing furiously at her hips. Her head tipped back and her face bared her anguish to the ceiling. Her teeth were clenched as she tried to ride out the agony of this searing stripe of molten lava zinging across her bum.
To Mrs Thomas, her daughter's reaction brought back a memory she only now realised she had suppressed - of a fellow sixth-former she'd been caned with; a girl often in trouble; the eighth stroke of a "Molly" caning. She'd been so shocked at the ferocity of it, and the evident agony of the unfortunate recipient, that she'd brushed it under a carpet in her mind. Extraordinary. What was her name? She couldn't remember.
Rachel very gradually became less agitated, though tears were streaming down her cheeks, tears this time of sorrow as well as pain. She stood, her jeans around her calves now, and sobbed.
"I'm sorry, mother, I'm sorry," she repeated, her shoulders shaking with release. Her mother's heart melted and she took her daughter's head between her hands, and kissed the tear-soaked cheeks, right and left, before hugging her tightly and stroking her hair.
"It hurts so much," whispered Rachel.
"I know, dear, I know." She spoke gently. "I am sorry too. I don't want to hurt you ... not really." She stepped back and held her daughter's face again so she could look her square in the eyes. "Did I ever tell you I got the cane myself at school?"
"At Cropton Hall?" Rachel looked amazed, and the beginnings of a smile lit up her tear-stained face.
"Of course."
"No, I didn't know that."
"Yes, indeed. Several times. So I know how you feel my dear - and the worst is over. But please, no more drinking! Ever! Is that clear?"
"Yes, mother." Rachel leaned forward to get more of the hug and mother and daughter stood, swaying slightly, for nearly a minute, before Mrs Thomas broke away and said,
"Time for bed, young lady. It's ridiculously late, and I expect Susan is waiting to hear all about it, isn't she?" Rachel's eyes widened and she smiled shyly - she was learning more about her parents this night than she'd learned in all her life before.
"Yes, mother." She reached down to pull up her panties.
"Let me just have a look at your traitors first," said her mother.
"My what?"
"Your marks, dear. It's what we called them at school."
"Traitors? Why traitors?"
"Well, because they betrayed the fact that you'd been beaten," replied Mrs Thomas, inspecting her daughter's behind. Rachel reached round to look as well. "That last one will take a while to disappear, but you'll live."
"Ouch," said Rachel, wincing as she felt the deeply ridged weal on her right buttock. She bent down gingerly and lifted her panties very slowly over her bottom and then her jeans which elicited some sharp intakes of breath. She thought better of trying to do up the zip or the button. She smiled ruefully at her mother, and looked down. "Thank you, Mother." Her mother looked at her quizzically. "For punishing me. I'd hate to hurt Father, and I nearly did. You saved me from doing that and I deserved ... what I got."
"Thank you, Rachel. I'm glad you understand. And I'm proud of you - you were very brave. Now off to bed with you, and don't you dare make a sound."
The light was off in the bedroom she was sharing with Susan and, once she'd eased the door closed as quietly as she could, she stood still wondering if Susan could really be asleep. Suddenly the bedside light clicked on and Susan was leaning up on her elbow.
"Are you all right?" she asked, concern and guilt in her voice. As Rachel approached between the twin beds she noticed Susan's eyes were red as if she'd been crying. "I heard..."
Rachel lowered herself very cautiously onto her bed facing Susan and smiled. "Yes, I'm all right ... really. I'm not sure my bum is though. It's throbbing and stinging like mad."
"I'm so sorry, Rache. It was my idea, and now I've got you into..." She dissolved into tears.
"It's all right, Susie. Really, it is. And it's not like it's the first time, is it?" said Rachel smiling and leaning forward to put her hand on Susan's shoulder, wincing again as she did so. Susan wiped her cheek and looked cautiously at her friend whose jeans, she noticed, were unbuttoned.
"I heard you scream. It sounded like a cane - I thought you said your parents didn't have a cane."
"They don't! This has never happened before. My mum cut a branch of something really bendy from the garden somewhere, so I suppose it was like a cane. I've never seen her so angry, and she hasn't even spanked me since I was about six!" S
usan was trying to figure out why Rachel seemed so ... bright. "But you know what?" said Rachel, her clear brown eyes sparkling after all the tears she'd shed.
"What?"
"I'm glad ... I'm glad she thrashed me. I know it's peculiar, but I feel as if ... as if I deserved it really."
"Why? For staying out late and having a drink?"
"No, not that exactly. More that I realise how selfish I've been and how little I ever really think about my parents and what it's like for them. 'Specially my dad. My Mum told me things ... things I hadn't thought about. Not to mention..." Her eyes widened as she said animatedly, "You'll never guess what, Susie!"
"Well I won't if you don't tell me." Susan sat up.
"My mum got the cane!"
"What?"
"Yes, she did. At Cropton Hell - several times."
"Gosh. It's hard to imagine, isn't it?" There was a pause as they both contemplated this image. Then Susan asked,
"Rache ... what's it like?"
"What's what like?"
"Getting the cane. I heard Jenny Richards - you know, in the Upper Sixth last year - she got caned by the old Head before Weekesy came. She said it was like a line of fire across your bum, and then another, and another until ... well, it sounds really painful, not like Weekesy's weak plimsoll."
"Huh! A hundred lines more likely anyway. Mind you, it did hurt quite a lot that time we put salt in Waring's tea, didn't it?"
"Yes, but Miss "Very Waring" kicked up such a fuss, Weekesy didn't have much choice. I was pretty sore for a while that time." They pondered their memories of that slippering. It had been the second time they'd been punished together - physically - but the first time they'd compared their marks afterwards. They'd gone to the end of the row of toilets, lifted skirts and admired each other's reddened bottoms, tracing the darker red circular marks where the gym shoe had landed. They had even, daringly, placed hands to feel the heat in each other's bottoms. That had been Susan's idea. But the episode had created a stronger bond, a camaraderie between them. In fact, it had really cemented their friendship. Now Rachel asked,
"Do you want to see the marks? Mum says they used to call them traitors when she was at Cropton."
"Traitors? Why?"
"Because they give away that you've been beaten ... which, I suppose, you were meant to feel ashamed about."
Rachel stood up and lowered her jeans. She stepped out of them and chucked them onto a chair by the wall. Then she turned her lusciously rounded backside towards Susan. "Are you ready?" Susan looked up at her friend and blushed.
"Are you sure you want to show me?" she asked, trying to conceal her rising excitement, sure her reddening face gave her away. She had secretly lusted over Rachel's rear for months. "I mean, it's not fair only you ... having them."
"Nonsense, Susan French! Be silent and admire." Rachel was really enjoying herself.
She inserted her hands into the top of her panties and pretended to walk seductively, her buttocks rising and falling alternately with the motion. Then, turning to smile at Susan, she very slowly unpeeled them. Susan's mouth was dry and she felt thrills racing up and down her middle. One by one the stripes were revealed. At certain points the panties were stuck to Rachel's flesh and she winced as she slowly eased them past these sorest, raw places.
"Rachel ... I don't know if I can say this."
"Say what?"
"I think you're very ... brave..." It wasn't what she wanted to say. She tried again. "What I mean is... I think you're... you are so beautiful Rachel." There, she'd said it. She held her breath, fearing mockery and shame - "lesbo" was a perennial taunt at school - or worse, a cold rejection. Rachel turned and gazed into Susan's eyes, searching. Her eyes twinkled as she smiled. She'd known. She decided to tease.
"Why thank you, Miss French," she said in a mock American South accent. They'd been to see A Streetcar Named Desire at the Gaumont the week before. "But I do believe, honey, it's mah turn to admire this part of mah anatomy. Kindly pass me that mirror, Miss French." Still blushing furiously but giggling now too, Susan jumped out of bed and fetched the mirror. "Hold it there." Rachel twisted round and lined up a view of her buttocks, lightly touching the ridges of the three deep welts with her fingers as she did so. "Mm. Pretty impressive don't you think?" She turned to face her friend whose eyes were shining with desperate love. "Susie ... I'm not sure I can say this either, but you did, so I will too." She sat carefully, looked down at her hands, then up at the ceiling, took a deep breath and said, "I like being beaten." There was a pause as Susan digested this. Rachel looked up and added, "Oh and I think you're very beautiful too." She laughed nervously.
"Gosh," was all Susan could utter at this moment. Her heart swelled at the last statement - so there was hope for her. But the first - she was puzzled. "Thank you." She thought for a moment. "You like being beaten?" She tried to keep any sign of mockery or judgment out of her voice.
"Yes, I do." Rachel was the one now blushing.
"That seems ... unusual. How come?"
"I don't know, exactly. And it's not so much being beaten - that can be scary and too painful, well it was tonight - but it's how it feels afterwards that I like. The glow ... the ache ... the marks..." She looked at Susan, fearing mockery just as her friend had.
"I think I know what you mean," replied Susan. "I do feel kind of ... special afterwards ... brave ... like I've survived something." Her expression became serious, almost sad as she looked steadily into Rachel's eyes. "Rachel ... I love you." Rachel continued to look at her hands. Susan hurried on. "I've felt this way ever since we went back last September. I just feel so good when I'm with you and I want to be with you ... all the time! And I look at you and I get weak. Tonight, when you came back and you'd been crying and ... thrashed ... and yet you were so ... I don't know. I love you!" She leaned back and laughed. She was happy she'd spoken her truth at last and the relief made her feel that whatever came next didn't matter.
Rachel reached for Susie's arms and pulled her up so they stood face to face. Then she placed her hands behind Susie's tousled blonde head and, pulling her friend gently towards her, kissed her with passion on the lips.
3. The Methodical Father
Verily Markham had aged well. She was a very handsome woman, as a number of unsuccessful suitors over the years had remarked. She was distinguished in bearing, with square shoulders and a slim build. She wore her brown hair pulled back severely from her forehead into a tight bun, and favoured well-tailored suits of jacket and skirt in sombre greys or browns with unobtrusive patterns. She smiled readily but could bring her piercing brown eyes to bear in a way that made even the most confident soul, including admirers, flinch and doubt themselves.
Having settled into her quarters, and met Mrs Taylor, the School Records Administrator, her first step upon arrival at Cropton Hall on a sunny Saturday in early September was to telephone Edith Bainbridge and arrange a meeting. This proved easily accomplished and Edith arrived promptly at the Headmistress' study at four-thirty that very day. She even came bearing a tray with cups, saucers, teapot and a plate of biscuits. "I thought you might need a pick-up after your journey, Verily, so I popped into the kitchen. A very fine Scottish blend I think you'll savour," she said.
"Edith! You're a godsend," exclaimed the new Headmistress. "How very thoughtful of you! I usually prefer Twinings, but I'm sure this will be lovely. Why don't you bring it over here and we'll enjoy the comfort of these sofas?" Edith brought the tray to the far end of the study where the afternoon light poured through the tall bay windows. "Do you know, Edith, this room has scarcely changed at all in, what, twenty-five years? It's quite extraordinary! The same desk, cupboard, chest of drawers..."
"Yes, now you mention it ... but I believe these sofas replaced the old ones, during Mrs Dunstan's time - she was Clarissa Weekes' predecessor. And of course the curtains aren't the same," pointed out the Deputy Head.
"Ah, yes, you're quite right. And as a pupil back then, I suppose I would re
member the furniture at the study end of the room more," said Verily thoughtfully.
"I imagine you would!" exclaimed Edith, pouring the tea and passing a cup to Verily. "If I remember correctly, Verily, you made a great many visits to this study!"
"Thank you," she said, taking the cup and sipping. "Yes, and left much chastened! You remember correctly, Edith. Mrs Bentley was no slouch with a cane, I can assure you. When I arrived this afternoon, and was about to open the door, I experienced a moment's panic as if I were seventeen again. And one of the first things I did was to look in the middle drawer of the chest of drawers - the infamous middle drawer - to see if that same collection of implements was still there."
"And?"
"Just a size four plimsoll, some pads of notepaper and a number of pencils!"
"Yes, well, your predecessor was reluctant when it came to administering corporal punishment. She preferred to set hundreds of lines."
"I gathered as much from Lady Althorp when I came for my interview." Verily's expression became more serious. "Well, we'll soon change that, Edith, and that is one of the items I want to discuss with you."
"Very well, Headmistress," said Edith switching to a more formal mode of address. She had decided, since the interview and appointment, that she would not allow Verily's status as a former pupil of hers (let alone one to whom she had herself administered a whacking) to affect in any way the degree of respect she would afford her in her new role. Not that she foresaw any problem with this as she genuinely did respect the younger woman, and was confident she would make an excellent Headmistress under whom she, Edith, would be most happy to serve.
Verily produced a notebook, sat back into the sofa cushions and proceeded to business. First, Edith filled her in on each member of staff, the numbers of girls in each form, which forms had proved most difficult and recalcitrant, and the histories of some individual pupils. She outlined the staff structure, the roles of the Heads of department and dormitory mistresses, and brought Verily up to date on the number of new girls due to start at the school in what was, they reminded themselves, only eight days' time. There was plenty to do. They then looked over the recently released exam results, which were not good, before Verily outlined her main proposals for change.
The Girls of Cropton Hall Page 3