The old Victorian building looked gray and forbidding in the late 
evening twilight.   The lawn in front of the conservatory had taken a 
deep dark green hue and the trees and shrubs surrounding it seemed 
almost black.

Although it was barely nine-thirty, no light shone from any of the 
windows.   Curfew was at nine at Clareview Boarding school, and the 
house had settled into the peace of a typical mid-term night.

From the edge of the lawn, there was a slow and careful movement.   A 
girl, half crouching in the undergrowth, was carefully inspecting the 
building in front of her.

She wore white running shoes, white ankle socks, thin navy-blue silk 
shorts, a white running vest.   It had been a hot sunny day, but now the 
cool of the late evening brought a shiver to her arms.   Her skin was 
the golden brown of a fit athlete, and her young body was lithe, firm 
and fully developed.   Her natural blonde hair was tied in a pony tail.

That afternoon, nearly all the girls at the school had set off on a 
weekly cross-country run.   Down by the river she had paused and let the 
other girls disappear into the distance - and then spent a wonderful, 
wonderous afternoon with Martin.

They had eaten a picnic tea on the river bank: afterwards an 
unbelievable five times had he brought her to mind-numbing, 
body-shaking, climaxes.   Now her body was spent, yet fulfilled and 
totally satiated.

But now she needed to get to her dormitory bed, hopefully without 
discovery, and tomorrow she could, perhaps, make everyone think she had 
got back much earlier.   In the distance an owl hooted softly, and 
overhead a pair of pipistrelle bats fluttered back and forth hunting for 
flying insects.

She moved slowly round to her right, to make her way to the side door - 
on numerous occasions, for many reasons, that door had remained unlocked 
all night.   And then she saw her chance - the door from the main hall 
to the patio had been left ajar.   She could hardly believe her luck.   
Even if she was spotted immediately she passed through the hall, she 
would be so close to one of the downstairs bathrooms, she would have all 
sorts of chances to bluff her way through.

She braced herself, took a deep breath and then ran quietly across the 
lawn and over the patio.   She paused at the door and listened.   There 
was total silence.   So far, so good.

Carefully, without disturning the door, she silently crept into the main 
hall.    Again she paused.

Before her eyes could become fully adjusted to the gloom there was a 
sudden click.   The small prefect's desk near to the patio door was 
bathed in the golden yellow light of a lamp.
Sitting behind the desk was Miss Pettigrew, an elderly frail woman, 
headmistress of Claireview School.

She pursed her wrinkled lips into a look of intense disapproval.   "And 
where, pray, have you been until this time of night?"

Jennifer nearly fell against the door in her startled shock.   "I'm 
sorry, Miss," she blurted out.   Her mind raced for some plausible 
excuse, but almost as a looker-on, she heard herself say that she had 
sat down to rest for a minute and fallen asleep.

She almost bit her lip at the lameness of her story.

"This is not the first time, Jones.   It had better be the last."

She hung her head.   "Yes miss"

"Let me make it quite clear, Jones.   If you ever play truant again, and 
miss bedtime curfew, you will be birched in front of the whole school 
and then you will be expelled.   I simply will not tolerate your total 
disregard and selfish behaviour.    Is that quite clear".

"Yes miss" . 

"You may feel grateful that you are not going to be birched on this 
occasion.   However, you are gated for the next month and you will help 
Cook in the kitchen by doing kitchen chores for the next four 
week-ends."

"Yes miss"

"And you will now receive nine strokes of the cane!" she snapped with 
firm satisfaction. 

Nine?   Jennifer was incredulous with disbelief.   Four was all anyone 
ever got for cutting curfew - out all night was only six.   "But that 
isn't ...", she started

  "Miss Grimshaw!"  called Miss Pettigrew, cutting Jennifer short.

Jennifer hadn't seen Grimshaw standing in the shadows, and her heart 
sank as she realized that Grimshaw was going to the beating.   Grimshaw 
was tall and heavy, but as the physical education mistress, she had 
developed a strong right arm that kept the girls in respectful and 
distant awe of her.

It slowly dawned on Jennifer  that they had set a trap for her by 
leaving the door open, and she like some dumb fourth former had walked 
right into it.   She felf anger at herself for getting into this mess, 
and dismay at the prospect of her immediate future.   She had been caned 
before and had no desire to repeat the experience.

Grimshaw stepped forward and stood in front of Jennifer.   Her black 
hair was set in a severe bud, and she was wearing a heavy tweed skirt 
and light white blouse.   She was carrying a wooden cane, perhaps  three 
feet long or slightly less.   The tip just touched the floor by 
Grimshaw's side.   The cane was made of ashwood, hard, smooth and very 
whippy - tapering from a half inch diameter in her hand, down to a 
quarter of an inch at its tip.

Grimshaw lay the cane down across the desk, and started to roll up her 
right sleeve.   "You know the rules, Jones?" she asked.

"Yes Miss"

"If you talk, argue, attempt to get up or try to block any stroke, you 
will get extra strokes added.   Quite clear?"

"Yes Miss"

She picked up the cane, and pointed at the desk with her left hand.   
"Bend over, please"

Jennifer stepped over to the desk.   She put her hands on the far side, 
and lowered herself down across it.   She moved her elbows outwards, and 
used the backs of her hands to cushion her face from the wooden surface 
of the desk

Miss Pettigrew had taken up station by her right, and Grimshaw was 
behind to her left.   Jennifer felt the tip of the cold and hard cane 
lying lightly across her buttocks,  and she braced herself for the first 
stroke.

There was an unexpected long pause.

Grimshaw looked down at Jennifer's bottom.   Her shorts had ridden up to 
reveal half of each cheek, and the cane's position meant that the 
strokes would cut across the hems of the shorts. That didn't seem quite 
right, so after considering the alternatives, she finally stepped 
forward and pulled the material of  leg up over each buttock.   Yes, 
that was much better she thought - and, to all intents and purposes, the 
girl would now get a bare bottom beating.   Yes, much better.

She stood back and took up position again, laying the cane across the 
center of Jennifer's bare backside.

Jennifer knew precisely what had happened, and could feel the wedge of 
material tight between the cheeks of her bottom, and the cold stick 
lying across it.   Again she took a deep breath and braced herself.   
The room was now totally silent, and in darkness save for the desk and 
its victim bathed in yellow light.

Grimshaw swung the cane straight backwards then lifted it up over her 
shoulder, rasing her arm and twisting her wrist so that the cane pointed 
down her back.   In a smooth and fluid arch she lifted her heels and 
started the downstroke.

The cane made a noise that sounded rather like "Whick" - a sharp "whi" 
as the cane swished through the air, and a loud "Crack" as contact was 
made.  

Jennifer gasped, and her large blue eyes swam with tears from the 
searing burning sensation.   A ride stripe, quarter of an inch wide, 
slightly longer on the right cheek than the left, marked clearly the 
site of her pain.

"One!" called Miss Pettigrew.

Jennifer now knew this was going to be bad.   She clenched her fists and 
her teeth as she heard the sound of the second stroke - whhhhh- ick!    
Despite herself she cried out and a second red stripe appeared parallel 
and just below the first.

"Two!"

Whhh - ick!   "Three!"     Whhhhh -ick!      "Four!"

Jennifer was crying freely, and each stroke brought forth a cry of pain. 
There was a thin patina of persperation on Grimshaw's forehead, which 
gleamed in the reflected light.   She paused for a moment to regain her 
breath, and push her right sleeve back over her upper arm.

The four long lines on Jennifer's bottom lay in a band less than two 
inches wide.   They were an agry red color, and the first and highest 
mark was beginning to rise into a welt.

Jennifer's universe had shrunk into enduring the remainder of her 
punishment - it was only the threat of extra pain that gave her the 
resolve to remain motionless across the desk.   Four strokes was surely 
enough, she thought.   The sting was already quite dreadful - and there 
was still five more cuts to come.

Grimshaw placed the next five strokes over the top of the previous ones, 
and, each time, increased the force of the downstroke.   Jennifer's 
cries raised in pitch and volume, and the ninth stroke produced a scream 
of anquish that echoed around the room.

And then it was over.

Grimshaw stood back again and started to unroll her sleeve down her arm. 
Pettigrew waited for Jennifer to regain some of her composure.   They 
looked with dispassionate interest at the state of her bottom, several 
of the welts on her right cheek showing signs of laceration.   

Jennifer's sobs began to slacken, and slowly and painfully she pushed 
herself upright.   The pain was almost intolerable.   She turned to face 
her tormentors, and winced as she pulled the hem of her shorts back down 
into place over her bottom.

Her face was pale and drawn, her eyes seem to have shrunk into their 
sockets.

"Right, off to bed with you girl.   And remember, if you ever do this 
again, you will really suffer."
 
Jennifer nodded silently, and limped to the door.   She left without 
looking back.

Jennifer pushed the door behind her and stepped into the darkened hall.

She limped down to the bathroom, flushed her face with cold water.

Painfully she pulled her running shorts down over her bottom, and using 
paper towels soaked in water, bathed the welts and bruises the best she 
good.   She looked over her shoulder into a mirror to look at the marks 
Grimshaw had made.   

She felt a mixture of rage and dispair - nine strokes for missing curfew 
was so unfair, and her gating meant she wouldn't  see Martin for four 
weeks or more.

Slowly the fire subsided and her tears stopped flowing.    She pulled 
her shorts up, and again the pressure of the fabric touching the bruised 
and striped flesh momentarily rekindled the sting.

She left the bathroom, walked along the hall and started up the stairs 
to her dormitory, several times gently massaging her seat.   She noticed 
the door to Perkin's study was open and the light was on.   Jennifer 
started to edge past, but Perkins came to the door.

"Ah, there you are.   Step in for a minute."

Perkins was in the upper sixth, medium height, medium looks and medium 
talent.  But she was dorm prefect for Jennifer's dormitory and as such, 
she had considerable power over her charges.

"Please, Perkins," said Jennifer, "can this wait til tomorrow ... I've 
just had nine off Grimshaw, and I really ..."

"Yes, I could hear you getting them."she interrupted.   "Really hurt, 
did it?"'

"Dreadfully.   I'm awfully sore."

"Yes, I heard you yelling.   That's good.   Because of your caper, 
Jones,  I have been sacked as dorm prerfect.   Tonight is my last night 
in here."   She waved her arm around the room - the bed neatly made up, 
the fire place screened until October, the desk by the window, the 
leather settee.   "Tomorrow I'm back in the dorm.   And I'm not one 
little bit pleased about that!"

"I'm awfully sorry, Perkins, I didn't think..."

"You never think, you little ass.   And you are going to be very sorry. 
Normally, I would wait a couple of days or so to let someone get over a 
caning.   But tonight is my very last opportunity to beat you.   And I 
am not going to miss it."'

Jennifer was aghast.   "Surely not, you can't... " she protested

"You'd better believe it.   Now, take those shorts off."

The idea of defiance flashed through Jennifer's mind, but the 
realisation that she would then answer to a dozen dorm prefects, in 
turn.   She dismissed all thoughts of resistence.

"I said take your shorts off.   Do it.   Now."

Her thumbs went to the waist band, and she tugged downwards.   Once more 
Jennifer  winced as fabric rubbed against welted flesh.   And then she 
held the shorts in a ball of silk in front of her as a mask of modesty 
for her little blonde bush of pubic hair.

"No knickers?   Don't bother telling me the sordid details.   Just get 
yourself ready."

A footstool had been placed square against the edge of the bed.   It was 
cube shaped,  eighteen inches wide, about the same height, and two feet 
long, covered in a red felt fabric.

Jennifer sat astride it, facing the bed, rather like riding a horse or 
motorbike.   Her feet were behind her, on the floor, with soles 
uppermost.   She then lay flat across the stool and the bed, putting her 
arms and hands flat on the blue counterpane.

The pressure of the footstool between her legs to keep them wide apart, 
and the subsequent bending motion, had lifted and separated her 
buttocks.   The inner flesh had been turned outwards and flattened, so 
that her stripes now were bisected by a wide channel of pale, pink,  
flesh.

There was no modesty whatsoever in her position.

Perkins walked across, the paddle in her hand hanging down by her side.

The paddle was rather like an English cricket bat - a round short handle 
attached to a two and half foot blade.   But this blade was made of 
half-inch thick boot sole leather, and many a victim could testify to 
its efficiency as a tool of discipline.

"Jones, you are an insufferable idiot."   Perkins addressed the bare 
rump before her.   "I have to spend my last six weeks in this bloody 
school in a bloody dormitory and its all your bloody fault!"

Jennifer knew better than to make any comment.

"Just be thankful you did get nine of Grimshaw, otherwise I would have 
organised a dorm birching for you.   As it is, I will now take great 
satisfaction in leathering the living daylights out of you."

There was no set count for a prefect's beating.   The prefect would 
simply keep swinging the paddle until she was satisfied, exhausted or 
both.

For the second time that evening, Jennifer braced herself for the first 
blow - but already her tears had started.

Perkins laid the paddle across Jennifer's bottom, moved her position 
until she found one that meant each blow would land squarely on both 
cheeks.  She took a deep breath and started the beating.   

From no particular plan, design or practice, she breathed in on the 
upstrokes and out on the downstrokes, with a snort, both of anger and as 
a means to release the energy in her body.

Each paddle stroke landed approximately on top of all the previous ones, 
building a patch three inches wide and eight long of increasing redness 
across Jennifer's backside.   The outer edges landed on skin already 
marked from the previous beating.

The early strokes weren't too bad, not much worse than a mild slippering 
from mum.   But the relentless repition over and over on the same spot 
built the pain up without remit.

Although Jennifer was crying from the very start, she took the first 
three in virtual silence, the only sounds being the almighty whack of 
the paddle and Perkin's grunts.

By the end of the second three, she was yelling in pain.    And by the 
end of the beating, she had screamed herself back into silence, and was 
reduced to shaking her head and kicking her toes against the floor.

Perkins, panting hard from her exertion, stood back in angry triumph.   
That had hurt her, and how.   

She went across and sat down in her armchair, and waited patiently for 
Jennifer to get control of herself.

It took about five minutes before Jennifer's heaving sobs subsided, and 
she was able to get slowly to her feet.   She picked up her shorts but 
didn't even try to put them back on.   Her head remained bowed, and her 
knuckles were white.

It took every ounce of effort to force the words through her lips:  
"Thank you, Perkins."   The words were necessary - a breach of ritual at 
this moment could have resulted in her return to the stool for a short 
sharp reminder that she should never forget her manners.   

"Thank you, Jones.   You may go now."

Jennifer closed the door behind and stood on the landing for a moment.  
 Two beatings in one night simply was just not fair.   The pain throbbed 
through her bottom, deep inside the cheeks from the paddle, and a 
piercing bite from the cane over the rest of both cheeks..  

And everyone in the school must have heard her making a fool of herself, 
crying like a baby, unable to take a beating without letting the whole 
world know she couldn't cope with it.

 The one consolation was that by the time she saw Martin again the marks 
would have long faded.   But not the memory.

She climbed the stairs to the second storey to her dormitory.   Slowly 
and painfully - every step sent echoes of pain through her posterior.

Her long blonde hair hung loose and uncombed around her kneck, her 
running vest was wrinkled and forlorn.   She was carrying her silk 
shorts in her hand and the only other items of clothing she wore were 
her white ankle socks and white running shoes.

She stood on the top landing for a few moments, gripping the hand rail 
and looked out over the dark woodland seen dimly through the tall 
windows.   After a period of silent reflection, she turned and entered 
the dormitory.

She crept quietly between the two rows of beds until she reached her own 
footlocker.

She knelt quietly on her counterpane, keeping her backside off the bed 
and started tugging at her shoelaces.

Then the light was switched on.  

 All the girls in the room jumped out of their beds wearing robes and 
gowns and they all gathered in a circle around her bed.   Instinctively, 
she pulled her shorts into her lap to give herself some modesty - not 
that she needed to do so, for all the girls were used to taking communal 
showers every morning.

There was a tense feeling of expectation in the air.   Jennifer looked 
around the circle of faces.

Bates, a girl from the lower sixth who considered herself the most 
senior member of the dorm, stood forward.    "We have all been gated for 
one week  because we didn't see you slope off." she said in an 
accusatory tone.

"Or at least because we didn't rat on you, " added McBeth.

"Even though I know what you did," claimed Burton.   

"What do you mean, Burton?" Jennifer asked her coldly.

"I saw you with that boy.   I know what you did."

"Then you must have been late back, too.   Did you get a beating as 
well?"

Burton turned her face away.

""You little beast, you told on me!   I got five extra from Grimshaw, 
you little ..."

Jennifer started to jump from the bed to get at the third former, but 
suddenly she was surrounded by the others.

"Don't try to pass the blame, you little squirt!" said Bates.   "John 
was coming down special this week end to see me and now I wont get to 
see him until end of term.    And that's your fault."

Jennifer was being held by several people, and then those immediately in 
front of her moved aside.    McBeth stood in the middle of the room.   
She was holding a birch rod.

"Oh no, for god's sake no ..." whispered Jennifer.

"Serves you right." said Burton with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Please Bates," she begged.   "I got nine off Grimshaw and heaven knows 
how many off Perkins.   Please, no more, at least not tonight."

Bates appeared to consider the request, cocking her head to one side and 
as if she was giving the matter some deep thought.   "Naw." she 
announced.   "We reckon that by now the beatings you have had amounts to 
the same getting six of the birch.   We reckon you deserve getting at 
least two dozen, for what you did.   So the eighteen you are now going 
to get is absolutely right."   She addressed the others.   "Fix her up."

Many willing hands pushed and pulled her to the end of the room.   A 
simple four legged table was to be used as the birching horse, and 
Jennifer quickly found herself face down over its top.

Two pieces of thin rope tied her wrists high on the front legs, and two 
more secured her ankles to the rear legs.    Once again she found 
herself spreadeagled to await her punishment.

A small handkerchief was loosely stuffed in her mouth - this beating 
would not be heard by anyone outside the room, and a scarf was wrapped 
around her head to blindfold her.   She was not to see who wielded the 
birch at any one time.

More than one of the girls looked in awe at the marks already on her 
bottom, and perhaps thought that she had already had more than enough.  
But such thoughts had to remain unspoken.

She heard Bates' voice:  "Right, our six volunteers forward and make a 
straight line please."    

The birch rod, wasn't really a rod at all.  It consisted of a dozen or 
so thin saplings, chosen for their straightness as well as for being the 
right weight and thickness.   They had been bound together at one end to 
make a handle, and taped at one quarter and one half of their length.   
The tips could whip back and forth freely, yet the binding made them 
swish together in unison.

"First one forward, " called Bates.   "Three strokes in your own time.  
 Commence."

Jennifer felt the tips of the birch twigs touch her left buttock - some 
one who was left handed would open the account.   For the first time 
that night she felt  really frightened - she had never been birched 
before, and all the accounts she had heard suggested that the pain was 
the worst you could possibly imagine.

She felt hands on her shoulders.   Two of the younger girls would make 
sure she did not struggle too freely but, more important, that she would 
not choke on the handkerchief.

The birch was raised high.   It swished loudly on the downstroke.   All 
the occupants in the room seemed to start at the viciousness of the loud 
crack.

Jennifer kicked and jerked against all four cords that tied her - the 
action was completely involuntary.   If it was not for the gag, she 
would have screamed harder than at any time that night.   The pain 
really was incredible.

The next two arrived in short succession, and already the first trickle 
of blood could be seen on her left cheek.

Then the pause while the birch was handed over to the next in line - 
time for Jennifer to start to recover, and time for her stomach to knot 
in fearful anticipation of the next set of three.

The next three were delivered with a right hand, but Jennifer was past 
caring.   The only thing that mattered was that another twelve were 
still to come, and the agony was unbearable.

The room watched in silence as the girls in turn took the birch, walked 
forward and hit Jennifer's bare bottom three times.   Every stroke 
produced a frantic reaction, and Jennifer's buttocks become 
criss-crossed in welts, scratches and cuts from the birch saplings.

Finally it was Bates turn to deliver the final three.

Jennifer's backside was one mass of tortured flesh and broken skin.   
Bates laid very careful aim - this was her moment.

She unleashed a stroke as hard as she possibly could.   A couple of tips 
broke off the rod and flew up in the air.   Jennifer's grunt could be 
heard despite the gag.    

The scene repeated itself twice more.   And then Jennifer sagged at the 
knees, knowing her ordeal was over.

She was unfastened, and half carried by several of the girls to the 
bathroom.   Discipline had been served, and the process of 
reconciliation began by them bathing her wounds, applying a soothing 
lotion, and whispering quiet words of comfort and condolence.

But it was a good week before Jennifer could sit on a hard chair without 
feeling some discomfort.

And when she did meet Martin again, he found that the marks had not 
completely vanished.