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Images from Bringbackthecane.
Next illustrated story here
With her father away on business, it fell to Diane's mother to deal with the end-of-term report. And it was a stinker. Hardly any of the teachers had a good word to say for the girl, and the Headmistress more or less summed things up in her terse comments:
"Diane has wasted this term. She is idle, careless, and disrespectful. Her choice of friends is dubious. She regularly shirks sports afternoon. If she returns after the winter break, she can expect a to find a strict regime imposed on her. If she does not return, I regret to say that we shall not miss her."
Diane's mother read the report again and wished once more that her husband was not away. He would have dealt with this so much better. She had only ever spanked her wayward daughter with an old tennis shoes, and - once or twice - with a hairbrush. The report, however, clearly demanded the administration of the cane, an implement she had never used but with which her husband was quite familiar.
Anyway, punishment could not wait until he got back: she'd just have to do her best. She opened the cupboard in her husband's study and took out the long, whippy, crook-handled rattan. She flexed it in her hands and swiped it through the air, flinching at the whistle it made. She bet this thing really hurt. Well, Diane deserved it.
She could hear her daughter in the kitchen, finishing her supper. She called to her to come in to the living room.
Diane sauntered in, still in her school uniform.
"It's about the report, I suppose. So who cares what they think of me...?" She stopped in her tracks when she saw her mother holding the cane and the look in her eye. "You can't...you can't be serious...?" Diane croaked querulously.
But her mother was. Without a word, she tapped the table with the tip of the cane. Even Diane knew that resistance would be futile. She sighed and leaned forward, grasping the far edge of the desk. A moment later she felt her panties being lowered, her skirt raised, and the cool of the rattan against her bottom. And then she gasped as the first, swingeing stroke struck home.
Her mother congratulated herself on the accuracy of her aim. A dozen of these should make the point, she thought.
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