“Thank you, but do it and get it over with.” I extended an uninformed hand, palm up.
Constance was right. The cut of cane was so bloody awful I could scarcely believe it happened. Uncaring of dignity I clasp my hand under my armpit in an effort to absorb the agony. Constance watched with sympathy. “I told you so, Miss Durrant. Caning their hands is far worse than striping their little bottoms. I suspect we are going to have fifty very obedient young ladies by the time we are through. Do you still wish to have the young ladies received this punishment?”
Reluctantly I straightened up and tried to ignore the burning pain.
I had never previously experienced such throbbing pain and could well believe it was swollen twice normal size. But when I looked at it, there was no evidence of agony other than the red mark. I was stuck with a dilemma of my own making. “You are right. Constance,” I said, “it hurts terribly. But I want each girl to receive what you have just given me. In that case, it will be a stroke across each hand. If we fail to make an adequate impression, you and Betty can advance that number to two or three. Let us begin.”
Once more I felt a bitch. Not so much over the pain my little darlings were about to endure but over the whole erotic scene Uncle Andrew had made possible. I was positively on fire in my desire to see the manner in which each maiden would cope. At the back of my mind was a vivid speculation about Elizabeth Lord.
Rockley’s girls stood around the wall as I mounted the small stage and faced the class. I tried not to look at Elizabeth, who stood out from the rest like a bacon on a dark night. She was entirely glorious and was offhandedly fingering the metal collar on her neck. For her, the thing about to happen would be infinitely worse than for the rest. My pulse raced.
From the slight height of the stage I surveyed my captives who stared back as though I were the angel of doom. “Your punishment today is appropriate to your dress,” I began. “You will feel the punishment unjust but it matches your behavior before you came to Rockley. I want each one of you to kneel where you now stand. Come, no dawdling.”
They were baffled and paused to stare at each other in dismay. But if one knelt, her companions must also. The result was a pleasant clatter and clink of chain as they assumed their new position. As I observed Elizabeth Lord kneeling humbly with her teenage companions, my nostrils flared in joy.
“Your hands are about to be caned,” I told them in my most authoritative tone. “Some of you will have enjoyed this experience in school, the rest of you will have heard of it. When your turn comes, extend your right hand with open palm, and watch while it is done. There will be no closing of eyes or turning away. You will repeat this as often as required. There is no need to panic, you will not die.”
The girls were exquisitely controlled, the collar and linkage imposing a compulsion they could not contest. Constance, Betty and I had agreed to share the task of using the cane, while, at the same time, keeping an eye on the long line of darlings. First on the chain was a fierce-eyed daughter, intelligent enough to realize her helplessness, but unable to control her anger. “I do this under protest, Miss Durrant. At the end of my time here, I shall make quite sure my parents and the police take action against you.” Her voice lost something of its arrogance as she added. “Please don’t cane my hand too hard. I’m only a girl.” Bravely she extended one bare arm.
I made the cane zing. The eyes of number one almost jumped from her head in shock. She stared at me in horror before thrusting her punished palm beneath an armpit with an moan of misery. My own gasp was one of joy.
Number two was frankly scared, a lissome little sweetheart with dark brown hair and pert cones for breasts. She put her hands behind her back and said, apologetically, “I’m sorry but I can’t possibly. I can’t stick my hand out for that pain. And I can’t look at you while you cut it in two.” Her voice was choked with emotion.
Without a word I allowed the quivering tip of my instrument to friction the young breasts, making a bland assurance, “If you do not extend your arm, and do as you’re told. I will cane these twin delights until you do.”
No arm could be extended with greater speed or palm offered with more appeal. My cane cut the air with a wicked song while the girl stared in wide-eyed horror. With a choking sob and tears, she nursed her wounded hand while I tapped the bare shoulder of number three.
The cane was the baton of a sympathy of gasps and sobs and tears. Most girls, when their time came, stared defiantly as their sacrificial palm awaited the fatal cut. Always the injured hand fled to the soft refuge of a girlish armpit. But there were those who bore their pain with remarkable fortitude - after all, their blood was blue!
The disturbance came while I was dealing with number twelve.
An angry redhead across the wall scrambled to the her feet, dragging her companions with her, to cry aloud in anger and authority, “Don’t be such a bunch of sheep. There’s only three of them! Come on, rush them all together!”
There was a startled hush, girl looked at girl while nervous hands fingered collars on slender necks and the chain Even my aides and I were startled into silence, but that was momentary. With purposeful strides. Betty seized the rebellious hair to shake a rebellious head vigorously before handcuffing the wrists behind the girl’s back. She then unlocked the collar and led the would-be leader of insurrection to the center of the hall in full view. In that center there rested a sinister black box from which she immediately extracted panties and bra and, despite struggles, clothed rebellious loins and breasts. But here was not the svelte symmetry of girlish lingerie, the panties and cups of the bra were well padded in a manner to make me long to laugh. Having got these garments properly in place. Betty donned rubber gloves and began to stuff a supply of stinging nettles within each cup and the panties. She seemed to be stuffing more into the girl’s crotch than there should be room for. She then roped the cuffed hands high from a noose around the rebellious neck, closed the lid of the box, and resumed her former position. The rebellious girl was left standing stricken and helpless as an example for all go see. It was beautiful to behold. The girl, her name was Amy, stood for a moment stricken in disbelief and gathering her thoughts as her shoulders weaved uselessly against the binding by which Amy’s hands were prohibited from reaching her garments. The poor, dear girl shook herself violently as might a dog to rid itself of fleas, shaking and twisting against the bit and sting of nettles plastered against her skin in her most tender places. There began then a performance to hold every maiden eye spellbound. With a sob of outrage. Amy lowered herself to the floor and rolled and contorted in anxious motion by which she no doubt hoped to rid herself of this hateful infliction. All could see the agony in her face and most knew to some degree the flaming sting that she felt so privately. Failing to gain relief, she now knelt beside the big black box to twist and trust against the lid to try and rub off her bra or panties. But they had been place on tightly and all her efforts failed. Scrambling to her feet, Amy devoted all her efforts to freeing her handcuffed wrists from the rope around her neck, but this, too, was painful and unrewarding. Eventually she stood before us all, suffering a punishment we could not see. Her breasts heaved as her breath came fast in total frustration and defeat. Amy looked around the circle of teenage concern as if in search of aid. But then, with an inarticulate cry, fled from center stage to fall kneeling at my feet. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please forgive me. Miss Durrant, I promise I’ll behave. Please, please, please!!!”
She was very sweet in her progress, her repentance was real. I could well imagine what the nettle leaves were doing to her. With some compassion I told her she must return to the center of the hall and stand there for ten minutes before her neck would once more be collared to the chain. No doubt Amy computed odds and realized my offer was as good as she would get. With one more sweet little cry of despair, she fled back the way she had come to stand in the center of the huge room. Her feet were rooted to the floor but the rest of her was in constant motion as she twisted and contorted in fiery agony. The distress was beautiful on her face. I loved the way she jerked and pulled on her wrists in an uncontrollable effort to use her hands. The steel edges of the handcuffs bit into the flesh in a lovely infliction of additional punishment.