He does not have to say anything here; he just shakes his head in heavy mock-disappointment.
“I was beginning to think there was hope for you, Beth,” he says. “Beneath the onion layers of foolishness there was some wit lurking; a potentially excellent student who needed only a firm guiding hand to steer her away from the choppy waters of typical student distraction. Was I wrong to think so?”
I bite my lip and send an appealing look from beneath my fringe. “No, sir, honestly. I won’t let you down again.”
“I sincerely hope not, Beth. I do not like being let down. I intend to keep you performing to the very best of your ability, and if the motivational influence of the cane is necessary, then I will not hesitate to apply it regularly and rigorously.” I gasp, not liking the sound of this at all. He relents slightly, tilting his head. “I’m adopting a ‘three strikes and you’re out’ policy, Beth. One more incident of this nature, and I shall be devising a disciplinary programme for you that will include scheduled canings.” Fuck! Now that’s what I call motivation. OK, my mind is concentrated. No deviation from the straight and narrow from now on.
“Very well, I see you understand the situation you have placed yourself in,” he says. “Now, Beth, we agreed your punishment, did we not? I would like to hear you ask for it.”
I shuffle my shoes a bit and stare at the floor, blood rushing to my cheeks. “Please, sir, may I have twelve strokes of the cane?”
“Look at me and say that again. Clearly this time.”
My fingers are twisting and fidgeting. I look up, and have to force the words out with some effort.
“You may. Bend over the desk, Beth, holding on to the far edge. Feet apart. A little wider apart. Good.” My pleated skirt is raised and my white cotton knickers lowered to the crease of my knees. Sinclair stands behind me, silent for an age, looking at me. I hear a clatter from the cane bucket in the corner and his footsteps returning to take up position at my rear.
I flinch, prematurely, when I feel the tapping of the rod lightly against the centre of my upthrust backside. While he judges his stroke, he tells me that I am to count each one and thank him for it. As before, I am not to break position for any reason, which instruction has me gripping the table so that my knuckles whiten.
“You won’t be forgetting this in a hurry,” he says before laying on his first stripe, vividly worse than I remember, inducing a long, pained exhalation and a conviction that I will not be able to take twelve.
“One, thank you, sir,” I moan into the hard wood of the desk, inwardly questioning my sanity. “It really hurts,” I add, knowing that this will cut little ice, but needing it registered anyway.
He does not even answer, lining up the second scorcher with calm precision and letting it sink deep into my skin.
“Two, thank you, sir.” I am rocking on the balls of my feet, trying to distract my body from the blaze ripping through my bottom.
“I hope it was worth it, Beth,” says Sinclair laconically, giving me plenty of time to absorb the maximum pain impact before the hateful tap-tap-tap starts over again.
And again, the deceptively quiet whoosh through the air and smart snap of contact; strange that Sinclair makes so much more noise with the palm of his hand, and yet the damage is so relatively trivial compared to this intense localised agony. I would take an hour of Sinclair’s hand over six of these, I think.
So it’s “Three, thank you, sir” and “Four, thank you, sir”, and I’m quite impressed with myself at not jumping up thus far; I think I’m taking it like a trooper, trying to bring the pain inside and let it float around within me until it recedes rather than fighting it. But I have taken only four and there are still eight to go, and Sinclair’s demand that I count is my worst enemy in this regard. If only I didn’t have to keep my head, I could concentrate on subduing the pain, I could float off into a strange world of hazy endorphin buzz and deal with it the best I can. But I can’t do that; I cannot escape one second’s consciousness of what is really happening. I must remain mentally present for the duration of the punishment, as Sinclair intends me to.
“How many is that now, Beth?” he asks, even though I have just counted the fourth stroke.
“Four, sir.”
“And how many are left?”
“Eight, sir.”
“That’s right. Eight more. Do you think you can take it?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Let’s see, shall we?” Tap-tap-tap whoosh thwick. I cry out; this one seems even harder. Then I regain my breath, count, express thanks.
The sixth is an evil bastard, falling between cheek and thigh. I jiggle my legs compulsively, breathing in and out very heavily, like women on TV hospital dramas panting through contractions.
“You don’t like it there, do you?” he
says matter-of-factly.
“Six, thank you, sir. No, sir.”
“Is it painful?”
“Very…painful…,sir.”