Miss

IF....

Most people have seen the film IF which begins with an intense caning scene.  Unfortunately for us it is a boy who is caned, but I have often imagined that caning meeted out to a beautiful schoolgirl like Milena here.  This story explores that theme.  Enjoy:

The hall was not very large, perhaps twenty feet by thirty,

with a row of chairs lining each wall leaving a clear space in

the middle. Half a dozen prefects stood together in a group

watching her enter, and one of them had a bundle of

professional-looking canes tucked under his arm. Her mind

reeling beneath an intoxicating mix of trepidation and

anticipation, Milena guessed that he must be John Emery, Paul's

co-prefect in charge of correction.

Trying not to look either defiant or frightened, she stared

straight ahead and kept her chin up even though she could not

stop her lower lip from trembling at the prospect of suffering

the cane in front of all these young men.

Paul introduced her all round as if she had merely come to

take tea with them. John Emery looked very much like his

fellow officer, only dark-haired whereas Paul was blond. The

introductions complete, John suggested they begin. 'By the

way, are you wearing panties?' he asked her.

Milena lowered her eyes as she mumbled that she was.

'They will have to come off,' he said. 'The boys aren't

allowed underpants in the gym shorts they wear in correction.'

She laid her purse on a nearby chair, and then reached under

her dress, somehow getting her trembling fingers into the

elastic of her panties. She drew them slowly down her legs,

balancing carefully as she stepped out of them, one foot at a

time, and laid them on the chair as well.

'Right, stand here.' Paul indicated a point on the floor where a

white line, much scuffed, was painted on the boards. 'You have

to keep your toes on this throughout, or you'll earn yourself

extras.' He waited while she placed her sandals where

generations of feet had stamped and writhed in pain. 'Now

bend over and grip your ankles, and don't let go until you're

given permission to do so. I'm sure you know the drill from

your days at school.'

She did, and bending right over, steeled herself to stay down no

matter what. It was a year or so now since she had left school,

but receiving extra strokes over and above one's sentence for

rising prematurely was a lesson that, once learned, a girl did

not easily forget.

Hearing movement behind her, she bit her lip in anticipation,

but a member of the committee abruptly postponed her

torment.

'Look here,' he said, 'we can't have this. That dress is far too

loose. The folds will wrap round the cane and absorb the cut,

especially the lower ones, which are the ones that really count.

She'll have to take them on the bare.'

There was a quiet discussion, which she was not invited to

join, and then hands took hold of the hem of her blue dress and

pulled it up across her back, leaving her buttocks bare. The

cool air in the hall caressed her naked flesh, making her

intensely conscious of the fact that young men were treating

themselves to the appealing sight of her smooth white bottom,

enticingly bare and tightly stretched as a result of her position,

her peach-shaped cheeks and the slenderness of her thighs

accentuated by the taut nylon of her stocking-tops. Nor was

that all they could see; the air felt even cooler on her lightly

haired, plump little vulva, pouting and mysteriously moist

despite her fear. Moreover, the way she was bent forward

pulled open the deep space between her buttocks and revealed

the delicate, lightly browned whorl of her tight anal dimple, the

exposure of which filled her with an even hotter shame than the

baring of her virgin slot.

'That's better,' Paul said from directly behind her, 'and this

way we will be able to see the effect of the cuts as well. Six of

the very best coming up,' he announced. 'You take the first

three, John, and I'll finish her off.'

This time there was no interruption; she heard footsteps on

the parquet behind her, the sound of a quick step, something

whirred like a wasp in the air above her, and the blow fell.

She bit down hard on her lip, and groaned. Oh, this was

really going to be bad! She had thought Myra could cane, but

this was at least three times worse. For a start, this cane was

whippier than anything her guardian had ever used on her, and

these were men - strong young men. Both principal actors

looked as though they could be the captains of games with their

muscular shoulders, firm forearms and strong wrists. They

were also, in a sense, professionals. But she was forced to

cease this breathless analysis of her caner's skill when the next

stroke landed, just like the first one, excruciatingly low on her

bent hinds, printing a thick angry line just above her highly

sensitive crease. She gasped, and her head strained back as she

fought to overcome the agony surging through her.

Again the thump of trainers behind, and the rod lashed into

her a third time. After an initial shocked intake of breath, she

whimpered from the pain blinding her, and tears she could not

control ran down her cheeks.  Her fingers fluttered

on her ankles as she resisted an overwhelming desire to stand

up straight.

There was a slightly longer pause between strokes then as

Paul took over for John, and then the pattern resumed. If she

had hoped for even the slightest diminution in severity, she was

doomed to be disappointed.

Paul had viewed her baring with interest. It was not the first

time he had seen a female naked below the waist, but never

before under these circumstances, with her bent over and

awaiting correction. Her firm, pale rounds swelled invitingly,

deeply cleft and showing below and behind them the pouting

plumpness of a well grown pudendum, fleshy lips fringed with

soft brown curls.  And between her plump buttocks the pucker of

her anus, all the more on display because Milena had

instinctively taken a wide-legged stance, undoubtedly learned

at school as the one affording the most stability under the

disorientating blaze of strokes from a cane on raw flesh. Now

three thick parallel welts marked her pale rounds, their heat

almost palpable as her burning cheeks writhed slightly despite

her admirable control. Paul was determined that his cuts would

be at least as well defined; John had set him a challenge he was

happy to take up.

He measured his distance with a practiced eye, picking his

mark where John had left a pulsing welt across the girl's

cringing buttocks. It was placed quite low, the tip of the cane

biting in on one end leaving a particularly angry plum-hued

lump. Two steps, and he unleashed his stroke, driving his

shoulder down and, at the last moment, imparting added

velocity with his wrist. The thud of the impact jarred

satisfactorily up his arm, telling him he had struck true,

although just above where he had aimed the blow. Never mind;

he had the range now, he could place his shots where he chose,

and she would not complain he had not done her justice with

this first cut.

She did complain, but only to herself. Pride kept her from

crying out, but her knees quivered as she absorbed the waves of

pain that continued to surge through her seconds after the rod

bit deep into her tender flesh. Then the sound of footsteps

behind her heralded another of the same, and this time when

Paul stepped back he was gratified to see her knees turn in and

rub briefly against each other with a slight rasp of nylon. Yet

she straightened her legs again without being spoken to, and

with two springing strides forward, he delivered the last cut.

The cane sank deep into her soft flesh, and a new burning

weal sprang up to join the others. Now she carried six thick

pulsing welts across her throbbing hinds, evenly spaced in the

lower part of her pert cheeks so that they would be directly

beneath her when she sat down. He watched the involuntary

clenching of her beaten flesh for a moment, admiring his

handiwork and giving her a chance to show what she was made

of. He had to give her credit; those were as tight a six as he had

seen, and she had taken them well - as well, or better, than any

boy. And she was still bent over, awaiting permission to

straighten up as she had been trained to do.

'All right, you can get up now,' he said. 'Go and sit on the

bench outside.'

Red-faced, Milena rose, and her dress fell back down over her

bare and beaten bottom. She walked to the door with as much

dignity as she could muster, endeavouring to control the widelegged,

bent-kneed gait her sore buttocks demanded, her hands

clenched into fists at her sides from the effort she had to make

to move gracefully.

'And keep your hands off your bottom,' one of the other

young men called after her. 'You haven't been dismissed yet,

and no boy would touch himself there until he was home.'

She closed the door behind her, and then sank down onto the

bench, carefully adjusting her throbbing cheeks against the

hard wood. She would have preferred to stand, but they had

told her to sit, and she wasn't about to give them the

satisfaction of faulting her for disobeying orders in an effort to

relieve her pain. So for about five minutes she endured the

discomfort of her aching flesh against the unfeeling timber until

at last she was dismissed, and she could walk on unsteady legs

to the toilets for a good, long cry.