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Image from Baredandwaiting
She'd been caned on five previous occasons during her time at the school, not to mention the number of times she'd been over that chair, or the Headmistress's desk, or bent down grasping her ankles, while her backside had endured the attentions of the hairbrush, tawse, or paddle. She was, Sarah had to admit herself, something of a serial offender.
But the cane was the worst, especially the Senior which the HM was wielding so furiously now. OK, it had been careless to thow a tantrum at the singularly humourless maths' teacher, and perhaps she shouldn't have called him a 'superannuated old goat', but the fact was his clothes did look as though he'd stolen them off a scarecrow, so she really shouldn't be being beaten for having stated the obvious.
But my God, the cane had hurt this time. Where did the ancient crone get her strength from? The first two strokes - the ones she'd laid across the lowest part of Sarah's bottom - had been especially agonising. Then she'd delivered two whacks to the top of her cheeks. Number five had been just south of the 'Equator', and now Sarah was braced for number six:. She bet it would be aimed right at the very centre of her bum and that, as tradition demanded, it would be the hardest of the lot.
She screwed her eyes shut and tightened her grip on the wooden seat.
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