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There's a quiet, nervous knock on the study
'Come!' the headmaster calls, tidying away
the dull papers he's been reading. Time for some real teaching,
it would seem.
The heavy door opens, and the eighteen-year-old
girl steps carefully into the room, almost as if she thinks
that by being extra quiet she'll escape the punishment she dreads,
wanting it to be over already. As she moves into the room, her
hands take themselves unbidden behind her back, clasping and
'Take a seat, please, Mija, would you,' the
headmaster says, beckoning the schoolgirl to the straight-backed
wooden chair which faces his huge desk. Mija sits, demurely,
waiting for Mr. Bailey to finish his bureaucratic chores. She's
wearing a crisp white blouse, buttoned right to the neck, a
blue pleated plaid skirt, and white knee-socks. It's all clean
and immaculate - none of the girls would dare to go
to the headmaster's office in any other state.
Mr. Bailey clicks on the intercom. 'Ahh, hold
all calls and visitors for half an hour would you, Janet. Mija
and I have some serious talking to do.' There's a muffled crackling,
which the headmaster seems to find an acceptable response, and
then he lifts his gaze to the senior schoolgirl's. Mija immediately
drops hers to the floor.
'Look at me, please, Mija,' the headmaster
says, calmly, knowing that he won't be disobeyed. With some
difficulty, the girl makes eye contact.
Mr. Bailey sighs, contemplating a small pile
of papers in front of him.
'Do you remember, Mija, the last time I had
to reprimand you for poor work?'
'Yes, sir,' she says.
'And do you remember what I said would happen
if things didn't improve significantly?'
'What did I say, Mija?'
The girl blushes. She's breathing shallowly.
It's hard for her to say the words, shameful.
'You said you would put me across your knee
and paddle my bare behind, like a fifth-grader.'
'Well,' the headmaster says, 'I'm glad you
remembered. That's something, at least.'
Mija feels about six inches high. Tears are
not so very far away.
Mr. Bailey stands, and begins to walk around
the study; he takes Mija's work with him, leafing through it.
'You are an extremely bright girl, Mija. There's
no doubt about that. I'm honestly not sure I would be taking
so much trouble over your discipline if you weren't. You are
capable of a great deal of fine work, yet you let things slip,
through carelessness, laziness, sheer apathy.' His voice is
increasing in volume, the words hammering into Mija's skull.
'This is going to stop, and it's going to stop now.
Do you hear me?'
'Yes,' Mija says quietly.
'Yes, what?!' Mr. Bailey booms.
'Yes, sir,' Mija corrects herself urgently.
'Very well then.' The headmaster sits again,
skewering the girl with his gaze. 'Do you own a dictionary?'
'Yes, sir,' she answers, puzzled, her brow
'Then why don't you use it, hmm? This work
is just full of silly mistakes that a ten-year-old
would be ashamed of.'
There really isn't any answer. Mija just blushes,
her mouth opening and closing.
'It seems to me that if you insist on making
a ten-year-old's mistakes, then perhaps the solution is to treat
you as if you were a ten-year-old. You are quite aware of what
happens to fifth-grade girls in this school when they misbehave,
This, it seems, is a question which demands
an answer. It's an answer which had been indelibly imprinted
on Mija's little ten-year-old bottom many times over, before
she grew too old, according to the school rules, for that
sort of discipline.
'You spank them, sir.'
'Exactly right! I spank them, soundly.
Which is why, young lady, I am now going to administer the spanking
which you have badly needed for a very long time. Stand up.'
Words crowd into Mija's mouth, wanting to
be said but ultimately too frightened to squeeze between her
teeth into the wide open world. With no option, Mija stands,
watching with mounting panic as Mr. Bailey reaches into a drawer
and pulls out a large, light wooden paddle.
She wants to run, to hide, to be anywhere
but here, but she's paralysed by the inevitability of the fact
that her bottom is going to be smacked, hard, and that
she knows she deserves it; that, much as it's going to hurt,
it's a good type of hurt.
The headmaster begins to come around his desk
towards Mija. Then he stops, his attention caught by something
on his bookshelf. He pulls out a volume, carries it with him,
hands it to her.
It's a dictionary. Mija is puzzled, but only
for a moment, because in a quick, practised movement, Mr. Bailey
sits on the chair and guides the schoolgirl - still holding
the book - across his lap, lifting her forward such a long way
that her feet lose contact with the ground. Memories of being
across the headmaster's knee as a junior flood back, unwelcomed.
She's eighteen-years-old! This can't be happening.
'Very well,' Mr. Bailey says, seemingly happy
with the girl's arrangement over his lap. He takes the hem of
her kilt, and lifts it right up Mija's back. Simple white cotton
panties and bare thighs are revealed.
Mija feels the headmaster's left arm lock
her in place.
'We'll start with a little spelling test,
Mija groans inwardly.
'And, given that you have a dictionary easy
to hand, I shall expect every answer to be correct.
Is that understood?'
'And, lest we forget exactly why it is we're
in this odd configuration, while the test is going on, I shall
set to work warming your bottom.'
Then Mr. Bailey takes Mija's white panties
down to her knees, and pats each of her bare cheeks once or
'Spell . . . "egalitarian",' the
headmaster commands, then sets to work paddling some colour
into Mija's bum, his right palm spanking away crisply, efficiently.
The schoolgirl gasps, her eyes squeeze shut
for a moment against the sting, but the spanks transmit some
urgency into her brain. She flicks frantically through the dictionary
as her bottom flattens and rebounds, the study echoing to smack-bottom
. . . ec . . . SLAP! CLAP! . . . em . . .
SMACK! SPANK! . . . ed . . . WHOP! . . .
Mija gabbles it out: 'E, G, A, L, I, T, A,
R, I, A, N.' The spanks stop, for a moment. Mija breathes heavily;
her bottom is glowing already, the uniform warmth extending
from her hips down to her thighs.
'There. That wasn't so hard, was it? Let's
try . . . hmmm . . . let's try "numerically".'
This one takes her longer; Mr. Bailey's hand-spanks
are really beginning to make an impact on Mija's bare bottom,
which is starting to burn quite fiercely.
But she gets there, with huge relief:
'N, U, M, E, R, I, C, A, L, L, Y!'
'Fine, I can see we're getting the hang of
this now,' the headmaster says, and he starts to wind up the
tempo, spanking harder, faster, causing Mija's body to jolt
with each fresh hand-smack, filling her eyes with tears, her
head with sorriness, her bottom with fire.
The pair of them, headmaster and senior schoolgirl,
go through 'dependent', 'describe', 'consistent', and 'hers'
- which Mija is genuinely surprised to find doesn't have an
apostrophe. Somehow, in the middle of the pain and the noise
and the tears that start to flow freely, the words seem to burn
themselves into her brain. She doesn't think she'll ever
And then it seems to be over.
But Mija remembers . . . and her stomach turns.
She feels Mr. Bailey reach down for the wooden paddle that will
finish the job.
'Put down the dictionary, Mija,' he says,
calmly, as the girl sniffs, and rubs at her eyes. 'To drive
the point home, without the aid of the dictionary, but with
the helpful assistance of my wooden friend here, I'd like you
to spell, if you would, the word "bottom".'
'B,' Mija says, and the paddle splats into
her behind. 'O' SMACK! 'T' WHAP! 'T' WHOP! 'E' . . .
WHOP! WHOP! WHOP! WHOP!
'Owwwwwwww! "O!", I mean "O!"'
'Good!' Mr. Bailey seems pleased. 'Now try
Oh, when will it end!
As the paddling roasts Mija's already-reddened
cheeks, she squeezes the letters out through the sobs, oblivious
to the dripping of tears onto the carpet.
'Now try "soundly spanked, bare bottom".'
But she gets there, shouting out the final
'T! O! M!' as if her very life is at stake.
Mija lays heavily over Mr. Bailey's lap, her
chest heaving with deep, childish sobs.
She hears a quiet voice, and almost doesn't
recognise it as that of the same man who has just spanked her
bottom harder than she has ever known.
'Shhh, shhh,' it says. 'All over now.'
Mija feels herself being lifted onto her feet,
and somehow her panties are replaced over her blazing, shining
cheeks. And then she feels Mr. Bailey's arms around her, only
he isn't Mr. Bailey any more - he's just Paul.
'Don't you think you're too big to need to
be put across my lap like a little girl?' Paul says gently,
letting her drip tears all over him, holding her tightly, tightly,
'No,' Mija says, her bottom lip protruding,
and both of them dissolve into the laughter that's strongest
stories about us
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