London Spanking

Spanking & Caning in London with Miss Elsa Svenson

 

Archive for August, 2012

 

Late…

Tuesday, August 14th, 2012

Late

by

Clarissa

Late again, yes, she knew she was late again; and it was for dou­ble maths, with Miss Prim. She was bound to get a tongue-lashing at least, she thought to her­self, as she laboured up the school drive and started across the rose gar­den. She glanced at her watch: five min­utes late had become ten, and she still hadn’t reached the block. She sighed, find­ing her­self flop­ping down on one of the orna­men­tal seats that lined the path. The roses were in full bloom: whites, yel­lows and the occa­sional splash of flam­ing crim­son; it was a beau­ti­ful sight. Twelve min­utes late now. What was she to do? If she wasn’t going (which, she realised now, she wasn’t) her best hope was that Prim wouldn’t miss her. Was that pos­si­ble? Or maybe she could pre­tend she had been sick? But for that you needed to go and see Matron, and that wasn’t going to happen.

She stood up: she had bet­ter get her­self out of sight, she thought; it would be too bad to be caught by a teacher or sixth-former now.  She headed across to the main school build­ing, then up the back stairs to the old art room, right at the very top. No one went there now – in fact, strictly, it was out-of-bounds.

She looked around the art room – what had once been a hive of activ­ity had now fallen silent; dreams and ambi­tions cov­ered in dust sheets. She paced the floor­boards, rehears­ing pos­si­ble excuses in her mind, the clock tick­ing relent­lessly on. She looked again at her watch – quar­ter to one. Gina and Emma would be out of lunch now for sure; maybe she should go and see them?

She found them near the hockey pitch. ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘how’s things?’

Where the heck have you been?’ demanded Gina crossly, though her expres­sion denoted relief.

Just out and about,’ said Roz; ‘how was maths?’

Ter­ri­ble as usual,’ responded Emma.

Did Prim miss me?’

She did ask if any­one knew where you were,’ con­tin­ued Emma, ‘and we said “No”.’

That was it?’

Yup.’

After­noon French went pretty much as usual: Roz enjoyed read­ing du Mau­pas­sant, and liked Made­moi­selle; she started to for­get about what had hap­pened in the morn­ing. As the clock approached half three, how­ever, her stom­ach started to tighten.

There was the bell; she was so close now. She grabbed her bag and made for the door.

One moment please, Ros­alind’; it was the voice of Mademoiselle.

She stopped in her tracks and turned round, as her friends filed past her.

Miss Prim wants to see you,’ con­tin­ued Mademoiselle.

What, now?’ said Roz.

Yes, now please,’ said Mademoiselle.

Roz sim­ply nodded.

Miss Prim was a woman in her thir­ties, but she dressed like a sixty-something librar­ian – Prim by name, Prim by nature, thought Roz.

Why weren’t you in class today, Ros­alind?’ demanded Miss Prim, sur­vey­ing the school­girl with pierc­ing blue eyes.

Roz had of course antic­i­pated this ques­tion; but her mind drew a blank.

Were you sick?’ con­tin­ued Prim.

Here was her chance; she could pre­tend she had been silently retch­ing behind the bike sheds, but no, she couldn’t do it.

No.’

So?’

I’m afraid I was late,’ blurted out Roz.

So you thought if you didn’t come at all maybe I wouldn’t notice – is that it?’

Yes,’ con­tin­ued Roz, then ‘sorry.’

Well,’ con­tin­ued Prim, ‘you have been a very fool­ish girl.’ Roz dropped her gaze.

If you had been late, I would of course not been very pleased,’ con­tin­ued Prim, ‘but,’ and now Roz felt her eyes burn­ing into her, ‘I would have dealt with it myself.’ A slight pause.

How­ever, as you have cho­sen to miss a les­son – and a dou­ble les­son at that – I have no choice but to send you to Miss Svenson.’

Roz’s stom­ach hit the floor; surely not the head­mistress – that could only mean one thing, and it was not good.

Please,’ she found her­self say­ing, ‘I won’t do it again,’ and now hot tears started spilling uncon­trol­lably down her cheeks.

I’m sorry,’ con­tin­ued Miss Prim, ‘but Miss Sven­son is already expect­ing you: I’m afraid it’s just too late.’

A difficult customer

Saturday, August 4th, 2012

A dif­fi­cult customer

by

Clarissa

She didn’t enjoy using the cane, Miss Sven­son reminded her­self as she stood at the study win­dow, watch­ing the rain­drops course down the gothic arches. No, for her, the cane was the weapon of last resort; the weapon you used when all other sanc­tions – tellings off, lines, stand­ings, nose to the wall in the cor­ner, had not worked. Still, when she did use it, she intended to make it hurt. After all, this was for the good of the girls: this was not just about pun­ish­ing past bad behav­iour, this was about encour­ag­ing future good behav­iour, even if this was accom­plished through fear. And mostly it worked; mostly, girls would leave her study, tears flow­ing hotly, and promis­ing not to come to her atten­tion again. But, and she sighed, this was not always the case: there was some­times what she referred to as ‘dif­fi­cult customers’.

She turned from the win­dow and sat back at her desk, upon which sat the file of fifth for­mer Miranda Spears. She opened the file, the wind now howl­ing incon­solably out­side, and took out the note from Miss Thom­son: ‘Dear Elsa, I would be grate­ful if you could deal with Miranda Spears. As you know, she has a gen­eral inso­lent atti­tude towards staff, but this morn­ing her insub­or­di­na­tion reached new heights when she refused point blank to com­plete her lines. I would be very grate­ful if you could deal with her severely. Yours exas­per­ated, Helen.’

Exas­per­ated’ was a heavy word, and ‘severely’ left no doubt in her mind that Miss Thom­son was call­ing for the cane. And so it would be. Here came the knock.

Come in,’ boomed Miss Svenson.

A tall, blonde-headed girl walked in and stood before her desk.

I won’t take long over this,’ Miss Sven­son con­tin­ued, ‘as I’m sure you know why you are here.’

No response from the schoolgirl.

This level of insub­or­di­na­tion is not to be tol­er­ated: do you understand?’

Still no response.

And it’s not the first time you have come to my atten­tion,’ Miss Sven­son now remov­ing a sheet of paper from the file. ‘I had hoped you had learned your les­son from last time.’

Still no response, not even a waiver from the school­girl. Miss Sven­son stood up.

Take off your blazer off and bend over the desk; I am going to give you six strokes of the cane – and I intend it to hurt very much.’

With­out a mur­mur the school­girl removed her blazer, hung it over the back of the chair by the door, and stretched over the desk.

Lift up your skirt,’ – the girl com­plied. ‘Don’t move!’

Miss Sven­son waited a moment, then walked across to the cor­ner cup­board and selected her weapon; she had already decided on the senior cane.

She stead­ied her­self, remind­ing her­self that this was a nec­es­sary – though painful – part of her duties as head.

She slammed down the cane, right across the schoolgirl’s blue school knick­ers. A slight jerk and gasp, but noth­ing more from Miranda. Was she really going to sub­mit to this with­out response?

Another stroke, then another in quick suc­ces­sion, allow­ing no time for recov­ery. By the end, Miss Sven­son was slightly sweat­ing, but the school­girl remained impas­sive across the desk.

Get up, and adjust your skirt.’

Up stood the school­girl, and turned to Miss Svenson.

Thank you, Miss Sven­son!’ demanded the head.

Thank you, Miss Svenson.’

Do you have any­thing else to say?’

An apol­ogy would be nice; but noth­ing came. Still, Miss Sven­son was pleased to note, Miranda did at least look some­what discomposed.

I want 100 lines from you by this time tomor­row young lady, and heaven help you if you disobey.’

Miss Sven­son looked at the 15-year-old in front of her: ‘”I will not be insub­or­di­nate in class” – 100 lines by tomor­row!’ she went on, although some­where deep inside her she wished they could be ‘I will not be so brave when caned’!