BEXHILL SCHOOL

The Price of Pride

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The Headmaster glared at me over his half-moon glasses. My knees felt like jelly and tears pricked my eyes.
“How dare you be out of bounds – you, the Head Girl?” he thundered. “I expect scrupulous behaviour from someone with your status and authority. Since you have shown such little regard for your position, I’m relieving you of it forthwith, and I’m stripping you of the rank of Prefect. You can go back to being just another Sixth Former.”
The ‘interview’ – although had been pretty one-sided – had gone on for at least ten minutes. OK, so I had risked a quick dash to the general store. I really wanted to celebrate my 18th birthday properly, but how can you party without a bottle or two of wine? It was really bad luck when the Headmaster’s wife walked in and caught me red-handed.
But to be demoted, not even to an ordinary Prefect, but to – well – nothing: it would be utterly humiliating.
“Please sir,” I stammered. “Isn’t there any other way? I’ll accept any punishment, but please let me stay as Head Girl, or at least as a Prefect.”
He narrowed his eyes and I could see that he was calculating.
“The only other option would be a caning, but a very severe caning indeed.”
I’d been whacked a few times before. I hated it, but it would be better than demotion.
“Yes, please sir, I’ll accept a caning.”
“I told you it would be very severe. It would be 12 with a Senior cane, and then 12 with a Dragon. Are you sure you prefer that?”
Oh my God! That would be excruciating! 12 with a Senior would be bad enough, but then another 12 with a Dragon! It didn’t bear thinking about.
“OK, sir,” I heard a small, nervous voice saying. It was mine.
“Very well then, take your knickers down, lift up your skirt, and bend over the table. You know the procedure. If you move out of position, there’ll be extras.”
I gulped, then as though I was on some sort of autopilot, I walked across to the heavy oak table over which who knows how many generations of Bexhill girls had lain to have their bottoms thrashed. I lowered my white panties, my fingers brushing the cheeks of my backside as I did so. I mentally apologised to them for what they were about to suffer. Then I pulled my maroon skirt up as far as I could, and leaned over, the wood cool against my hips as the Headmaster pressed me into position and I gripped the sides of the table, preparing myself for the first stroke. The first of… oh, good grief…24. How would I ever get through them?