To any student of corporal punishment the decade immediately following the Great War is perhaps one of the most interesting of all time.Mother had best be left in the dark about what happened next ;)
In 1918 the vote was given to women aged thirty and over; in 1920 the University of Oxford admitted women for the first time in its history and in 1928 all women over the age of 21 were enfranchised. In those ten years women made the most of their emancipation. They flew aeroplanes, drove racing cars, and generally let the world know that the liberated woman had arrived.
One of the first things that happened was she discarded her ankle-length skirts, her long hair was bobbed or shingled, and her skirts appeared above her knees.
When she left school, the girl of the twenties cast aside her hated school uniform. She replaced her gym-slip with the shortest dress her parents would allow, and her navy-blue bloomers with the briefest and tightest of rayon knickers she could get hold of. Her black stockings she exchanged for a pair of gleaming silk stockings, gartered as high as they would stretch. Cramming her feet into her first pair of pointed-toed, high heel patent leather shoes, she went out into the great big wonderful world with whoops of joy. She worked in offices, in shops, and in factories.
Out of her wages she had to pay Mum, of course, but there was plenty left to buy silk stockings, undies, make-up, powder, lipstick and mascara, even if she did have to wait until she was out of the house before she could use them.
She found a new world of boys. Boys who were only too willing to take her out in the evening. It was nearly always to the back row of the 'pictures' where she could gaze in rapture at Rudolph Valentino being so thrillingly cruel and masterful in the 'Sheik of Araby'. Of course the boys always wanted to kiss and cuddle but having their eager hands exploring her breasts and a sly hand creeping up her skirt was so thrilling! There was the 'Palais' too. You could dance the 'Charleston' and then it was all right to kick your legs and give the boys a glimpse of your garters. Some girls, the fast ones, even showed their knickers! Yes, life was wonderful!
The only fly in the ointment was Dad. Dad was old-fashioned. He didn't understand the younger generation. Like all previous generations of fathers, Dad was a reactionary and viewed his daughter's goings-on with a highly suspicious eye. Quite often he put his foot down. "No daughter of mine is going to roam the streets until all hours," he said. "Ten o'clock is quite late enough for you, my girl! You better be home by then or you'll get your backside tanned!"
In those far off days Dad was still 'Head of the Household' and his word was law. If his daughter dared to defy him and bounced in at midnight, flushed from struggling with her over-amorous boyfriend and smelling of port and lemon, she was apt to find that Dad had meant every word he said. No sooner had she taken off her coat than she found herself sprawling across his knees. In spite of all her sobbing protests that she was 'grown up' her short skirt went up, her knickers came down, and whack went Dad's heavy work-hardened hand in determined and very painful slaps on her bare and all too vulnerable bottom.
If she lived in the South of England, a good spanking or perhaps, at worst, a dozen or so whacks with his slipper were all that she was likely to get. But if she lived in the industrial North, then woe betide her if she defied him. The men of Northern England, the miners, steelworkers, and shipbuilders had never accepted the equality of the sexes! A woman's place was clearly defined and Dad wasn't going to accept any cheek from some chit of a lass! He said "Sith'ee 'ere lass, tha' be 'ome by ten or I'll skelp tha' backside!" and if she did try it on, she found Dad waiting up for her with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his belt already doubled dangling across his knee.
"Get tha' drawers down, lass!" was all he'd say and, even if she was nearly 21, she'd do as he bid her. When she was ready, she'd go across his knee as meekly as a lamb, and with the fortitude bred of centuries of submission. Dad saw to it that his thick, leather belt raised red weals all over her sturdy buttocks, but, humiliating and painful as these spanking from Dad were, they could have been a lot worse for, as every girl knows, Dads have a soft spot for their daughters, however naughty they might be. She knew that if she did find herself lying across Dad's knees for a well deserved whipping she could easily halt the proceedings with some well timed tears, probably ending up with half the strokes she deserved.
Parents with old fashioned ideas were only one of the stumbling blocks for the 1920's miss to contend with. There were others too who seemed to think they had a natural right to administer correction, especially if the girl in question was dependent on them for her livelihood.
If our girl came from a middle-class background and went to a private school, it is quite possible that she stayed on and left at 16 or even 17, then take a course at Business College. Here she would learn shorthand and typing and would then look for a glamorous office job. She would have a variety of boyfriends from the local tennis club, but would only kiss them discreetly when no one else was looking.
Of course her Mother was very proud when she set off in the mornings for her job in the City. Dressed in a very business-like black suit with a crisp white blouse and new silk stockings, she was the apple of her eye. Life was very good to her. The boss was quite a gentleman and she was flattered that she had been chosen as his 'Private Secretary'. The fact that he was a 'jolly good fellow' did not stop him from looking up her skirt when she sat in front of him to take dictation. Very discreetly, of course, but nevertheless she did have to remember to keep her legs closed and her skirt pulled down.
There were those times when he had to show her some document or other and his hand would come to rest on her hip. Now and then he would give her bottom a little pat of approval. Occasionally he would make suggestive remarks about someone or other deserving 'a damn good spanking' and he would be so emphatic that she sometimes wondered what he would do if she ever made a mistake. However she shrugged it off. He was far too decent to do such a thing.
Then had come the fatal day. That day she now looked back with such mixed feelings. The day she couldn't breathe a word about to anyone - especially to Mummy.
The day had been much like any other until late in the afternoon, when it was nearly time to go home. There had been a phone call which changed his normally pleasant expression to one of surprise, then dismay, then, as he slammed down the receiver, one of fury. Slowly he'd put both hands on his desk and stood up.
"You careless little idiot," he'd said in a tone that made her shiver, "Do you know what you've done?"
Dumbly she shook her head.
"Those contracts you posted last night went in the wrong envelopes and now there is hell to pay. Those people are bitter rivals. God knows what I'll be able to do."
Then, very quietly, and in a way she could not fail to understand, he added, "But I know exactly what I'm going to do to you, young lady." Her knees suddenly felt like jelly as she stared at him in dismay. He glanced at the clock on his desk.
"Send the rest of the girls home," he said tersely and, as her unwilling legs took her to the door, added, "and lock the outer door!"
She never knew how she mustered sufficient sang-froid to dismiss the typists, wait for them to get ready, and then bid them a smiling good-night, just as if nothing had happened, or worse, was going to happen. Reluctantly she dropped the latch on the outer door and still more reluctantly turned her steps back towards his office. All the time she was praying she had misunderstood. He wasn't really going to spank her? Perhaps he just meant a good ticking-off, but as she reached his door her hopes were completely shattered. Her heart gave a sickening lurch, for her chair had been turned around and he was waiting with obvious impatience beside it. He had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
All sorts of things came into her head. Desperate appeals for clemency. Varied excuses, threats to tell Daddy. A flood of thoughts went through her mind but she was unable to muster one word of protest. Suddenly he was unfastening her jacket, slipping it off her shoulders, folding it and putting it beside his own on the desk.
Then he was sitting down, taking her arm and pulling her, gently but firmly, down, down, until she was completely across his thighs. Oh why wouldn't her thoughts make sense? Why wouldn't the words come? Why didn't she struggle and shout, "No you can't. I won't let you. I won't be spanked like a naughty schoolgirl. I'm a young woman! I deserve to be -"
Oh my God, he's pulling up my skirt and my petticoat. I ought to stop him now, but he is my boss and I suppose he has the right. I don't know. Anyway if I refuse he will sack me and that will be awful. Mummy will be ashamed. Yes I DO deserve it. I was stupid and careless. Anyway a spanking is not much. I'm so glad I'm wearing my new cami-knickers! At least I look nice. Thank God I put them on. It would be awful if I had ordinary knickers on. He might have pulled them down! What's he doing? Oh my God, he can't! He's feeling between my legs for the buttons!
For the first time she found her voice. Clamping her legs tightly together she gasped, "Oh no, please! No. I-I'll do it for you, please." But it was too late, his fingers had found the two little pearl buttons that joined the narrow strip of material between her legs. Speechless with embarrassment she could only squirm in silent protest as his hot male fingers fumbled against her soft, feminine flesh until th strip parted. It was almost a relief when the back of the cami-knickers came up, even though it left her nude from waist to thighs. At least his hand wasn't fumbling between her legs!
Flushed and embarrassed she lay there; too acutely embarrassed to be even apprehensive about her forthcoming punishment.
"Oh Lord," she thought desperately, "I'm bare, absolutely bare! How shameful! I'll never be able to face him again. I never felt like this when Daddy did it. Oh he's looking at me down there, the beast!" She felt his right leg rising, felt herself being lifted as he wedged his heel high up in the leg of his chair.
"Oh no," she felt herself go hot, "how could he? As if he couldn't see enough already!"
All thoughts were abruptly banished as his hand suddenly descended on her raised bare buttocks. She felt her bottom quiver, then heard the sharp sound of the slap, then a tingling sensation in her right cheek. A second or so later a second slap made her left cheek quiver and tingle. Time passed and the spanks continued to fall with clockwork regularity and much harder than when he began. Her bottom began to wriggle and weave in rhythm with the spanking. Eventually she began to shout "Please Sir, do stop. I can't stand any more. Oh my poor bottom! Please STOP!"
She wriggled and beseeched until like any naughty girl anywhere she burst into tears.
Dazed and bewildered, sobbing her heart out, she found herself standing up, her face pressed to his chest, her tears wetting his shirt. One of his strong arms was around her shoulder. His voice was softly soothing while his other hand was gently rubbing her bare bottom. It was, by this time, a painfully smarting bottom that throbbed like an enormous aching pulse.
She refused to listen to the little voice that was trying to remind how improper it was, not to mention dangerous, for a decent girl to stand being caressed by a man with her dress up around her waist and her knickers undone. A good girl was completely at the mercy of a brute who had just given her the spanking of her life and whose hand was still caressing her bottom.
Slowly she pressed against him and abandoned herself to an orgy of weeping that left her strangely relaxed and contented. When she could no longer sustain her sobs she turned her face towards him. Her lips were suddenly kissed, at first quite gently, then more and more urgently until, blushing, she had struggle from his arms and accepted a cigarette, a practice new to her.
"You're not going home yet, my dear," he said smoothly. "phone your mother and tell her you are with a girlfriend. We'll have a drive out to Maidenhead for dinner and a little fun. I promise to get you home by ten."
Oh no, that day was certainly not one she could EVER reveal to her mother. Even if you could get her to understand the spanking and how it made you feel, what about the awful lies you told her on the phone? It would be impossible for her to comprehend the rest of the story. After a simply wonderful dinner of lobster and champagne, and you were lying on the back seat of his luxurious Daimler well, what was a girl to do? I mean if a man has unbuttoned your cami-knickers once that day and explored all you have to offer, there is no earthly reason why you shouldn't let him do it again!
As I had been told it would be, the front porch light at Professor Harrison's house was on. It provided much more illumination than I really wanted although I was fairly confident that my black raincoat and cape would sufficiently disguise my identity from the neighbours. Shivering with anticipation, I hesitantly rang the doorbell. It occurred to me that the Professor might deliberately make me wait out there until somebody recognised me.Not exactly politically correct behaviour on the Professor's part, but his student learned her lesson.
But the door swung open almost immediately, really too soon as far as I was concerned. Although the light from the living room momentarily obscured my vision, I was all too aware of Professor Harrison's imposing masculine figure in the doorway. Somewhat to my surprise he was attired in a black academic cap and gown that perhaps he considered appropriate for the occasion.
"Come in, Clarice," he spoke in a pleasant voice, as if he were genuinely surprised to see me standing there. This, despite the fact that he and I both knew exactly why I was there.
Although I felt my cheeks redden beneath my heavy make-up, I tried to keep my poise as I reluctantly stepped into the nicely furnished living room. I wanted to say something, but could think of nothing that would sound appropriate under the circumstances. My head felt light and it seemed impossible that this was really happening to me. My knees were a little shaky as he gazed curiously at me.
"I must say I feel..." I started to try to explain myself, but he raised a hand to signal me to stop.
"Let me help you out of those things," he said, clearly referring to my raincoat and cape.
I wanted to protest but stood there quietly as he lifted off my cape. My long blonde hair, done up in two tight braids, suddenly tumbled out into full view, along with the two bright red ribbons at the end of each braid. My deliberately juvenile hairstyle made me blush all the more, but I could tell that he was pleased with what he saw.
"The coat too," he said quietly.
I tried to undo the buttons but my fingers were numb and awkward. He observed me for a moment and then took over the task himself. I felt my knees buckle and I wanted to sink right through the floor as the coat came off to reveal the absolutely brazen outfit I had been instructed to wear. This consisted of a paper thin white blouse worn without a bra or anything else beneath it and a ridiculously short pleated black skirt that came only to mid-thigh and failed to conceal the darker portions of my mocha-coloured stockings. Black patent leather pumps with spike heels and pointed toes completed the visible parts of what Professor Harrison had all too accurately described as my initiation uniform.
"Please, Professor, I feel so..." I tried to speak but found myself at a loss for words.
No man had ever seen me attired in such a provocative and absurd manner and I squirmed with humiliation and confusion. I miserably tugged at my abbreviated skirt and wanted to cover myself but didn't have enough hands to do the job. Though I couldn't bear to look up, I could just feel his eyes feasting on my brazenly displayed figure. I'm afraid my skimpy blouse highlighted rather than concealed my pink tipped breasts, while that super mini-skirt and black hose made me feel much too leggy. How I had pleaded to be allowed to wear pantyhose rather than old fashioned regular stockings.
Perhaps I should offer some explanation for my mortifying predicament. I was a 24-year-old research assistant working under Professor Harrison in a field in which he was quite renowned. I had been looking forward to receiving an advanced degree at the University, but for various reasons my research project was not progressing as I had hoped. Feeling considerable pressure to complete the project as soon as possible, I cribbed some research findings from an obscure source that I thought would never be discovered. Alas I had overlooked Professor Harrison's thoroughness and complete familiarity with the field.
He had confronted me with the damning evidence in his office the day before. I had broken down and tearfully begged for another chance. I can remember his exact words:
"Clarice, I can give you another chance, but only if you accept appropriate punishment for this offence!"
I had no idea what he meant, but heard myself saying, "Yes, of course, whatever you say, but please give me another chance."
"It will have to be exactly on the terms I prescribe," he informed me, "And I do mean exactly."
"I-I understand," I feebly replied. I assumed that he intended to extract some sexual favours from me, and was prepared for that. But I was definitely not prepared for what he really had in mind.
"I suppose you could say that your punishment will be something like a sorority initiation..." he began.
Thus, I found myself in Professor Harrison's living room attired in the exact outfit he had insisted upon against my hapless and often astonished objections.
"I'm pleased that you have apparently decided to co-operate, Clarice," he remarked after carefully inspecting me from head to foot. "The session will go much more smoothly that way!"
My stomach did a little flip-flop and I found myself trembling visibly. "Perhaps," I meekly suggested, "You could punish me some other way?"
"No, no," he said, shaking his head. With that he took me by the hand as if I were a child. I'm sure he must have been a little surprised at how cold my hand was. "Let's go into the study."
My knees felt watery beneath me, and at times I thought I might lose my balance. At least we seemed alone in the house and that was some comfort. His study was what you would expect, lined with books and featuring a large desk and several comfortable chairs.
"Oooooh!" I'm afraid I involuntarily emitted a shriek as I caught sight of the bright red maple sorority paddle prominently displayed right on top of his desk! My heart started thumping wildly and I'm not sure but I must have turned pale under my make-up.
If I'm not mistaken, Professor Harrison chuckled under his breath at my fearful reaction. Although I held back, he forcefully led me towards a straight backed chair adjacent to his desk. I was biting my lip and was hoping desperately that something would intervene to save me or at least stave off what seemed inevitable.
"Bend over the back of that chair, Clarice," he instructed. "Grab the seat with both hands!"
I wanted to argue with him, but my mouth seemed filled with cotton. Miserably, I bent over the back of the chair as he had demanded and clasped the seat with both hands. I didn't have to be told that the back of my skirt had ridden up over the tops of my black stockings. My girlish rear end suddenly felt all too vulnerable, and tears of humiliation were beginning to affect my vision.
"Professor, please..." I managed to stammer indignantly.
He seemed in no hurry, but still events moved much too quickly as far as I was concerned. Almost before I realised what was happening, I felt his fingers on the hem of my short skirt. Up it went, right to my waist!
"Aaaaaaah!" I shrieked with horror as my black panties and matching garter belt suddenly came into full view. Instinctively I twisted in an effort to preserve my modesty.
"Hold still! Stay in position!" Professor Harrison demanded in an angry, commanding voice I had never heard before.
I shuddered and perhaps would have resisted had it not all seemed so unreal to me. A few long moments passed, during which time I'm sure he relished the sight of my panty-clad bottom, full white thighs and stocking-clad legs.
"Keep your hands on the seat!" he ordered.
An instant later, his fingers were inside the elastic waistband of my black panties!
"Oh no!" I screamed.
Without further ado, down came my panties! I wanted to die of shame and humiliation. With one swift, continuous motion, the Professor yanked my panties right down to the tops of my stockings,leaving my plump, feminine bottom horribly bare and way too vulnerable. Although, in retrospect, I don't suppose I should have been too surprised, I was completely dumbfounded by this unexpected assault on my pride and dignity.
"Hold still!" he demanded, though I hadn't really moved all that much.
"Oh this is just awful!" I protested as I began to recover my senses. "I didn't realise you would..."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him reach for that paddle on his desk.
"Oh please, Professor," I burst out, "Just use your hand! Don't use that awful paddle! Please!"
"Stay in position!" he barked at me, taking no notice.
Although my vision was blocked , I could sense that he was sizing me up, taking very careful aim with that wicked paddle. My gluteal muscles began tightening in anticipation, even though I was totally inexperienced and really didn't know what to expect.
SMACK!!
"Owwwwww!" I screamed as that highly varnished maple paddle landed squarely across my exposed bottom-cheeks with a loud whack. I suddenly felt as if I had been stung by a thousand bees. My entire body jerked convulsively and for a moment I thought my knees would give out on me.
"Count the strokes!" he ordered. "And don't forget to thank me!"
Oh how could he humiliate me like that! "O-One!" I managed to stammer. "T-Thank you..."
WHACK! Once again that paddle was right on target.
"Ooooooohh!" I shrieked, my braided curls flying as my head jerked back. I couldn't believe it could burn and sting that much!
There was a pause, as if he were waiting for something.
"T-two," I finally remembered in a haze. "T-Thank you!"
"That's better," he told me, "Now if I have to wait for you again there will be some penalty smacks at the end and I'm sure you don't want those!"
"Oh please, Professor, I can't stand it!" I pleaded, tears starting to drip down my cheeks.
"You've been a naughty girl, Clarice, and this is the price you have to pay!" he spoke as if to a juvenile instead of a completely grown woman.
Before I could respond, he took careful aim with the paddle. THWAAAAACK!
"Yeow!" That solid piece of maple flattened my buttocks again, and for a moment felt as if it were going to go right through me. "T-Three," I stuttered. "T-Thank you!" My tears were beginning to blind me, and I was already completely convinced that I simply couldn't stand much more of this agony. "Stop, oh please, stop!" I wailed in a distraught voice.
"Keep your bottom in position, Clarice!" he instructed in a voice that displayed not the slightest sympathy for my suffering.
"WHACK! Once again that vicious paddle splatted noisily against my unprotected bottom. As the fresh jolt of pain shot through me, I rocked forward on my toes and back on my heels.
"Owwwwwwwwww!" I exclaimed. "F-Four!" I was no longer sure I could keep an accurate count, not to mention the humiliation of it all.
"Well?" he enquired.
"T-Thank you!" I struggled to get the words out. "Oh please, don't make me say that!"
SMACK! The next application seemed harder than the ones before but perhaps it was just my imagination.
"Owwww, Oh God!" I shrieked. "F-F-Five! Oh this is just dreadful. Oh T-Thank you! Please, wait a minute, please! I can't stand any more!"
"You're not nearly red enough yet, young lady!" he announced in a calm voice.
WHACK! His accuracy with that paddle was almost unbelievable. Once again my girlishly plump bottom-cheeks went momentarily flat under the force of that crisply applied paddle.
"Yeeeeow!" I squealed, my burning buttocks twitching and jerking reflexively. "Six!" I gasped although I wasn't sure that was right. "T-Thank you. Oh please wait awhile! I'm scalding hot! I'm burning...oh please!"
SMACK!
"Owwwwwwwww!" I yelled. I'm sure the whole neighbourhood could hear me by this time. "S-Seven! T-Thank you...please, sir, take time out for a while. Please, I'm begging you!" I feverishly rubbed my nyloned legs together in an effort to reduce some of that heat in my burning behind.
WHACK!
"Ooooooooohh!" I shrieked between loud sobs of pain and shame. "Eight...I think. Please don't make me count any more! I can't keep track. Please, oh this is awful!"
THWAAACK! Professor Harrison continued to wield the paddle in unmerciful fashion.
"Oooooooohhh! N-Nine. T-Thank you!" I managed although I was crying almost too hard to get the words out.
SMACK! With my tender bottom completely in flames, the final blows of the paddle were almost unbearable.
"Oooooooh! Ten. T-Thank you!" I was afraid that I was about to go into hysterics. My legs seemed almost too weak to support me, and I was starting to sag over the back of the chair.
WHACK! The paddle imparted more heat to my already blistering hot buttocks, and I was sure I was going to faint before too long.
"Owwwwww!" I screamed in anguish. "Please have mercy. E-Eleven...T-Thank you!"
"One more, Clarice!" he announced sternly.
SMACK! The final blow, the hardest of all, made me see stars!
"Owwwwww!" I screamed. "T-Twelve! Thank you! Oh no more, please. I'm burning up! Oh this is just dreadful!"
I breathed a deep sigh of relief as Professor Harrison placed the paddle back on the desk.
"Over to the corner, Miss!" he ordered, taking me firmly by the arm. "And hold that skirt right up so you are showing that nice red bottom of yours!"
Nearly tripping over my lowered panties and blinded by my tears, I was forcibly marched over to one corner of the study. There I stood, bare-bottomed and disgraced, while Professor Harrison lit a cigar and leaned back in an easy chair to thoroughly enjoy the scenery... I knew I would do anything to avoid another workout with that wicked paddle!
On cue there is a tap on my door and Maxine and Karen come in, smiling and weary, still in their black night coveralls. I pour coffee for both of them and they flop into chairs to make their report - we're not needlessly formal here, that's the way women work.
They'd had no trade, Karen reports, until 5 am when, in the course of a routine infrared scan of a row of parked cars, Maxine picked up heat emanating from a four-seater. Karen had stopped the van a block further on and they'd checked out the vehicle on the police database via secure microwave link. It had been reported stolen at 9 pm the previous night. The two officers had walked back quietly to the car, electric prods in hand, ready to bleep the fuzz if necessary.
Sure enough there were two couples, one in the front seat, the other in the back. When Maxine had tapped on the window the kids had panicked and tried to drive off. The code for the Engine Authority Processor was of course already loaded into Karen's Personal Digital Activator, and, as the car began to pull away she'd aimed the PDA at the rear numberplate and squirted. A second later the engine died as the nullifying code entered the EAP and killed the spark. At the same time the car doors self-locked. The kid brought the car to a halt - there not being much else he could do - and then all four were taken into custody and put in the back of the van. You don't argue with a standard police issue electric prod and these four didn't.
* * *
The girl in Cell 4 is eighteen years old and dressed tartily in a brief lurex skirt and idiotic silver boots with preposterous heels. She wears no stockings, not even pantyhose, and her hair is short and dyed a fluorescent orange. There is a huge silver earring in her left ear and her face is covered in paint. She has been crying and most of the paint has run down her face.
I explain the situation; the felony of car theft; the misdemeanour of curfew breaking; the choice that lies before her of a court appearance tomorrow, or a thrashing within the next half an hour and a clean sheet afterwards. She weeps a little, swallows hard, and asks, what will the thrashing be like? How many strokes? What with? She spews all these questions out in a terrified rush. I tell her; it will hurt you a lot and make you very ashamed; you will receive one stroke for each year of your age, plus one; the implement will be a punishment strap of the standard weight and length for a girl of your age. I don't tell her it will be digitally recorded, or that she will be restrained across the frame. I don't specifically tell her the punishment will be on her bare bottom, but I think she guesses anyway.
She agrees, weeping, and I give her the form to sign.
Then I say, "You will now be left alone for twenty minutes. During that time you will remove all your clothes and jewellery. You will shower, and wash your face clean of that makeup. You will wash the dye out of your hair if you can. I advise you to make full use of the toilet. You will then put on the clothes my staff will supply. You will then sit on your bed and wait until you are fetched. If you then cooperate, and take your punishment bravely, it will be all over very quickly.
" Any questions?"
No, ma'am," says the girl, as white as a sheet.
* * *
We are now ready. I glance at the Punishment Room clock. Ten fifty one. Just myself, Tess Dean and Liz Donohue in the room - Janine is upstairs in my office holding the fort and watching on the monitor.
I say "We'll start with --,"
Tess and Liz are looking at me expectantly. All my girls are qualified to punish, of course, but they only do so at my discretion. Some Seniors hog all the thrashings to themselves and never let their staff polish their skills. Others are bone idle and delegate everything. The ideal, in my mind, lies between the two. I reserve the more serious punishments to my own right arm; this means the majority of canings and nearly all birchings, but when 'lesser' implements are involved - the strap, the tapette, spankings - I often let my assistants try their hand. I don't know how they are supposed to learn if they never get the chance.
Such a moment has arrived and we all know it.
Tess Dean is the best thrasher in my team, save for me, but I may need her this afternoon and, besides, she's already had one turn this morning. Whereas Elizabeth Donohue is new - recently seconded from the police department - and has not yet used the strap in earnest. I smile at her and say "You're on, Corporal Donohue. Nineteen of the best. Don't worry about the cameras, just do your job as you've been taught, and watch your timing. I'll count the strokes. Keep your eye on me in between strokes. Remember the hand-signals? Good. Fetch her in."
Half a minute later the girl from cell 4 appears in the doorway, framed between my two officers. Her face is pale and clean - she has obediently scrubbed off every last trace of that filthy makeup. Her hair is still lurid orange - presumably a fast dye - and damp; but the horrible earring is gone. She is wearing the regulation punishment smock of dark brown calico, knee-length, with short sleeves. No stockings or socks, just a pair of Turkish-style canvas slippers. Her wrists and forearms are already bound together with an elastic bandage. She eyes the room with scared, wide eyes, then stares at me in mute appeal.
Sometimes I'm asked if I feel sorry for the kids in this situation, especially when they look at me like Bambi eyeing the wolf. My answer is: I'm human, too. But the law must take its course: the only way I am legally able to show compassion is to make the punishment as quick and efficient as circumstances allow. There's no sense in adopting a kind persona - that would only confuse the culprit and possibly undermine the psychological effect of the punishment. A calm, neutral manner is always best; it steadies the nerves of all involved. Afterwards, of course, it's a different matter; then one can be as kind as one wishes, or as the former culprit deserves.
"Efficient and quick" means getting on with things, though without overt rush. I nod to the escort and the girl is marched to the frame. In confusion she starts to bend over the padded bar but Corporal Donohue holds her upright while the kneeling Tess Dean wraps another elastic bandage around the girl's knees, taking every other turn around the central post. She stands up and then the girl is bent forwards. Tess goes to the front of the frame and secures the girl's wrists to the ring, pulling the cord moderately tight. With a gasp the girl stoops even lower. She is now bent into a hairpin shape across the bar, her abdomen supported by thick plastic-coated padding, her thighs resting against the similarly cushioned centre post, her wrists fastened to the base. Tess takes off the brake lever and the entire apparatus rotates forward twelve degrees - there is another frightened gasp at this point - until the imaginary line we call 'Ground Zero' is uppermost. The girl's head and knees are now at the same level and her spine is nearly vertical. Tess puts on the brake.
Corporal Donohue has already tied her hair back and removed her uniform jacket; she is holding the strap in both hands, flexing it thoughtfully, keeping well back out of the way. At my signal, Tess grasps the hem of the brown smock and lifts it all the way up the girl's back, where a velcro pad attaches it to a canvas yoke sewn into the shoulder blades. Without haste, she inserts a thumb into each side of the waist-elastic of the brown calico knickers and draws them down as far as the knees. There is a muffled wail of horror from ground level.
I touch the switch that activates the cameras, and glance at the repeating monitor, paging rapidly through all the views - left elevation, right elevation, top-down, and face close-up (from a lens mounted obliquely in the floor at the foot of the 'donkey'). The title comes up - culprit's name, the offence, the date, the time, the instrument, the number of strokes awarded, the name of the punishing officer, and - still blank - the number of strokes administered.
I speak. "You will receive nineteen strokes of the strap. They will be administered at approximately eight second intervals. You may make as much noise as you wish, though if you are abusive you may receive extra strokes at my discretion. The punishment will now begin. Corporal, do your duty!"
You've probably seen the strappings on Channel 99. There's a right way and a wrong way; the right way is for the punishing officer to hold the strap at both ends, while standing one pace back from her mark. She then takes a stride forward with her left foot (if right-handed), at the same time releasing the tip of the strap with her left hand and swinging it back and up with her right - an ascent angle of 35-40 degrees is considered ideal - then as the weight comes onto the front foot, bringing the weapon round and through in a wide, slighly descending arc. If all has been calculated correctly - the positioning of the mark is of great importance - the last ten inches or so of the blade arrive simultaneously across the width of the bottomcheeks with a sharp smack, printing, for an instant, a perfect rectangular flush across the seat. This flush fades rapidly, but should still be evident when the second stroke arrives. Gradually it seems permanently painted, as it were; the target area - between Ground Zero and the upper thigh - becoming an even, and ever deeper, shade of rose, then scarlet, and finally purple if it has been an unusually severe strapping.
Corporal Donohue lives well up to expectation. As is so often the case with girls in our Department, Liz is unusually tall, with a long reach and a lusty swing. And the eye of the excellent tennis player I have heard her to be. The forearm that applies the "swip" again and again, with such accuracy, has no doubt volleyed many hopeful services away into unreachable corners. It is plain the instrument suits her; it is equally plain it does not suit the culprit who, almost from the first, sets up a continuous wailing screech. I glance at the monitor. The close-up shows a wide-open mouth, a waving tongue, and tight-shut eyes from which tears roll freely. I sigh. When she sees the TV recording she'll wish she had made less fuss. But the judicial strap takes many bad girls by surprise.
It's not my practice to remit strokes unless circumstances are exceptional and there is no justification for doing so on this occasion. I let it proceed to the end. Then the girl's knickers are drawn decently up to hide the scarlet bottom, the skirt unhooked and pulled down to conceal the knickers, the frame rotated back to the upright position, the wrists and knees unfastened, and then the girl stands in our midst, howling, her face red and swollen, her skirt clutched to her backside with both hands. I say, "The punishment is over" (as I am legally obliged to do, though I don't think she hears me) and then she's bundled out of the door and back to her cell. She'll be taken home later, after the others have been punished, so she has about half and hour to pull herself together.
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