A Corrections Officer's Tale

It all came about because my husband, Roger, and I took in a lodger. She was a lovely young thing, a tall blonde, beautifully built if slightly on the muscular side, and the local girls school's new physical education mistress. I say "school", it was more of a home for wayward girls aged between 18 and 20 years – a place they would be sent to avoid going to adult prison.

My name is Priscilla Pain – an appropriate name, you may think, in view of the story I am about to relate. I am a former warder at a women's prison and as such it was often my task to discipline naughty inmates. That was back in the 1960s, when a lot of things went on that possibly should not have gone on – or so the lily-livered liberals would have you believe.

And even though the events I am about to relate occurred in the 1980s – 1985, to be precise - some government institutions, being a law unto themselves, still conducted the business of corporal punishment for their most recalcitrant troublemakers. Political correctness has, sadly, seen the most efficacious "rule of the rod" depart from our nation's educational curricula. And more's the pity, if you ask me.

I was, when the events of which I speak occurred, a rather matronly woman of 45. My husband, Roger – now, sad to say, deceased – was 40. He was a large man with a broad posterior. It was a posterior on which I practised my cane-wielding abilities, which was an admirable situation for us both.

You see, I have always been a somewhat assertive woman, and Roger was an extremely submissive man. I guess that a psychiatrist would today describe us as a sadist and a masochist, although I prefer using the words dominant and submissive, myself. I find those terms far less daunting, don't you?

Anyway, Roger and I answered an advertisement in the local newspaper calling for a respectable family to take in as a lodger a new member of the staff at Birch House School for Recalcitrants. We applied and obviously impressed the headmistress, a lovely lady called Mrs Ramsbottom – an apt name for a lady with a posterior almost as wide as my dear husband's.

On our way out of the headmistress's study, she called me back.

"Mrs Pain," she said, when she was sure my husband had entered the corridor outside, "I have decided to choose you because I was very impressed with your references. Especially the one about your career as a prison warder."

"It was one of my most pleasant jobs," I replied, candidly.

"Yes, I'm sure it was," said Mrs Ramsbottom. "I understand that one of your tasks at Hardcastle Prison was to administer punishments to those who had got out of hand, as it were?"

I smiled. "I was not known for sparing the rod and spoiling the child, if you get my meaning," I told the head.

"Precisely," smiled Mrs Ramsbottom, who now that I looked at her more closely had a beautiful, large but firm-looking bust.

"I only mention it because as part of her duties here, Miss Buxton will be required to administer corporal punishment on our more, let's say 'ill-disciplined' pupils. She is well aware of the requirement as part of her job description but is not aware how she will react until the need arises."

"And you want me to pass on some of my long-since acquired skills?" I said, as Mrs Ramsbottom paused.

"Precisely, my dear Mrs Pain," she replied. "Do you think you will be able to, how shall I put it – handle that?"

I gave her my most winning smile. "I still have a collection of rods, canes and birches which I will be able to use to help iron out any deficiencies in her technique, my dear headmistress," I told her. "In fact, I think I might even be able to provide her with a model to practice on."

Mrs Ramsbottom raised her eyebrows in dual question marks. "You mean?" And she nodded her head in the direction of the corridor.

"Exactly, Mrs Rambsottom," I told her. "There are times when Mr Pain has to be kept in line, as it were. I'm sure that Miss Buxton will be able to witness one of his correction sessions and learn a lot from them."

I was about to leave the head's study when it occurred to me that a list of the school rules regarding corporal punishment might be handy.

"Do you have any written rules concerning how your discipline is meted out?" I asked. "It will be helpful for me, and I may be able to suggest some refinements."

Mrs Ramsbottom nodded her head. "Miss Carter!"

An attractive young brunette of about 20, opened a side door and waited meekly.

"A copy of Birch House's flogging rules, Carter," the headmistress snapped and the young thing nodded her head, and quickly departed to fetch them.

Handing them to me, Mrs Ramsbottom smiled: "I think this is all you will need for the time being. Miss Buxton arrives in a week. I shall call you towards the end of next week to see how she is, er – progressing? I know you will be a most effective teacher for her, Mrs Pain."

Back home, I relaxed in an easy chair while Mr Pain prepared me a pre-dinner aperitif of Harvey's Bristol Cream Sherry, if you can call sherry an aperitif. I opened the papers and read through the Birch House rules.

They were very simple and straightforward:

1. All discipline will be carried out on the miscreant's bare buttocks. 2. The flesh will not be broken. 3. The discipline will be administered by the school PE teacher, or whomever the headmistress appoints for the task. 4. The discipline will be administered in the headmistress's study and witnessed by her and school matron. 5. Discipline will be administered at the end of the school day. 6. For mild offences, six strokes will be delivered. 7. For serious offences, 12 strokes.

I read the rules and handed them to my husband, who was standing by my chair, as I had not dismissed him. "Your comments, my dear," I ordered, after passing him the piece of paper.

He read them and replied: "No nudity factor, no counting."

Roger was, as you will have seen, a man of few words.

"Precisely," I said, "and both matters which I shall take up with Mrs Ramsbottom when I see her next."

The day of Miss Buxton's arrival dawned and she seemed a pleasant enough girl – mid to late 20s, blonde, short-cropped hair, busty, strong calves and thigh muscles, judging by the little skirt she wore.

After dinner had been cleared away on her first evening, I dismissed my husband and sat down in the lounge for a chat with Miss Buxton.

After some pleasantries, I plunged into the subject that most interested me. "Part of your duties are to administer corporal punishment, I am informed," I told her.

"That's right, Mrs Pain," she replied, quietly. "I'm not at all sure I'm going to be very good at it. But Mrs Ramsbottom tells me that you are an expert." She looked at me, expectantly.

"Indeed, I am," I smiled. "And if you wish, I shall give you a short lesson in delivering the cane to a miscreant's backside, and then observe your technique." There was no point in beating about the bush, the girl had to be taught – there might be a pupil in need of a thrashing on her first day!

"What will you use for a target, Mrs Pain," the oh-so-innocent young thing asked, "a pillow?"

"No, something far more educational than that," I told her. "We shall use a real live bottom. Mr Pain's in fact."

Her eyes popped! "Mr Pain? Oh goodness, is that wise?"

I patted her softly on her knee. "Of course, my dear. My husband is one of those people who has come to experience the efficacy of the cane on a regular basis. He is now an expert at bending over and being whipped. Shall we go, I've told him to be prepared for us."

Miss Buxton stood.

"Oh, by the way," I said, as I walked to the door. "You're not a prude, I trust. You have no objection to a bit of male nudity?"

By "a bit of" I meant total nakedness, but she'd find out soon enough.

"Er, no, of course not, Mrs Pain," she said, although she didn't sound too sure.

I took her upstairs and ushered her into our rather cramped bedroom. But although I say "cramped", there was certainly room to wield a rod of discipline!

There, bent over the bed in his altogether was my pasty-bodied husband, quite naked. His big bum was thrust out ready for the cane, which he had laid on the bed. It was, I noticed, a slender Miss Whippy model, one of my favourites, if not one of his!

Stepping to the bed I picked up the cane and flexed it through my fingers. Lithe, supple, a real little stinger!

I tapped my husband's bum. "Ankles and thighs together, Mr Pain," I admonished him, "Miss Buxton has no desire to see your dangly bits."

"You may wonder why he is in the nude," I added, when he had settled. "The whole point of an effective punishment is first to deliver pain, of course. The second point is to humiliate. A humiliated floggee is far less likely to re-offend. Hence his nudity."

Miss Buxton nodded her understanding, then she stepped off to one side and I told Mr Pain to press up from the bed, so he was half-bent over it.

"I always use the half-bending position for a floggee," I informed Miss Buxton. "The bend-over-touch-your-toes position tautens the buttocks far too much – especially young, teenage buttocks. It makes the skin prone to tearing. And, I notice by the school rules, that is forbidden."

Then I raised the cane in my right hand and swished it down across Mr Pain's backside. The cane's path would not have exceeded three feet, but it cut delightfully into his big bum, the cheeks bouncing under the searing impact.

"One, thank-you, Mrs Pain," grunted my husband, in our little counting ritual.

"Another essential ingredient in a floggee's punishment and humiliation is having to count out the stroke and thank the punisher," I informed our young lodger.

"Now, are you right or left-handed, Miss Buxton?"

The lovely blonde said: "Left-handed, Mrs Pain."

I passed her Miss Whippy. "OK, let me see you in action."

Miss Pain took a rather long swipe and burned a stroke across Mr Pain's posterior. "One, thank-you, Miss Buxton," he intoned dutifully.

The blonde looked inquiringly at me.

"Far too long a stroke, my dear," I informed her. "By the time the cane reached his flesh it was decelerating. The point is to obtain maximum speed when the cane contacts the target. Try again."

Miss Buxton did, and this time she improved her technique. After another 11 strokes, I pronounced myself satisfied with the results. My husband's bum was criss-crossed with beautiful red slash marks, which must have caused exquisite agony.

"OK, Mr Pain," I said, "into the bathroom and apply some salve. Run along!"

My husband rose from his position and walked out of the room. It was obvious, as he did so, that his pathetic little five-inch penis was in an extremely aroused state. Miss Buxton certainly noticed it.

After my husband had closed the door, she gasped: "He was erect, Mrs Pain!"

"I'm afraid he was, my dear," I told her. "He's such a devotee of corporal punishment, I'm afraid, that a short session with the cane like that makes him extremely excited. Please accept my apologies."

Back in the lounge, Miss Buxton and I had a heart-to-heart. It transpired that while she had absolutely no qualms about using the rod on a delinquent male, it was another matter entirely as to whether she would be able to inflict the same type of medicine on a young woman. I sensed there was going to be trouble – and I was right.

On the second day of the new term, I was sitting at home, sipping my customary pre-dinner Bristol Cream Sherry when the phone rang. It was Mrs Ramsbottom.

"My dear Mrs Pain," she said, in a rather agitated tone. "I'm afraid we've had problems with Miss Buxton. Put quite simply she's not up to meting out the discipline our rules call for. The result is that I have three recalcitrants lined up waiting for their doses and no one to administer the medicine."

It didn't surprise me one iota. I had guessed that beneath her healthy, bouncing young woman's bold exterior lay a cowering little pussy at heart!

"And you wish me to step into the breach, Mrs Ramsbottom?" I said, knowing the answer only too well.

"Would you? I'll make it well worth your while. We have a special fund for such purposes," said the headmistress.

"Of course I will," I replied, "it will be my pleasure. Only tonight is out of the question. Mr Pain is about to serve his superb coq au vin and I have no intention of delaying my meal simply to thrash some trollops who cannot behave."

"Oh dear," said Mrs Ramsbottom, her voice thick with disappointment.

"But don't worry your pretty little head," I said, quick to assure her of my services. "I shall deal with them tomorrow after school – the wait will heighten their anxiety ahead of the punishments they are to receive."

Mrs Ramsbottom was delighted. "I knew you wouldn't let me down," she said.

"But," I said, and I heard her draw in her breath.

"There are some refinements to the discipline you administer at Birch House which I wish to discuss with you before I commence my duties. Shall we talk about them at, say, 4pm and then I'll deal with your naughty girls."

Mrs Ramsbottom agreed immediately, and soon I was tucking into Mr Pain's hearty coq au vin, washed down with a light but excellent claret. Miss Buxton explained her fears about whipping young women had been realised, but that Mrs Ramsbottom had asked her to stay on as the PE instructress.

"She told me she had you in mind as my replacement," she said.

"That is correct, my dear," I said. "But that your job, despite your reluctance to wield the rod on a delinquent's young bottom, is quite safe."

Miss Buxton smiled and looked down. "I'm sorry I cannot match up to your fine standards, Mrs Pain," she said, "but I'm really enjoying my duties at Birch House. Thank-you so much for standing in for me."

Later, while Miss Buxton was out on one of her lengthy keep-fit runs, I took Mr Pain upstairs for a strenuous session to celebrate my new appointment at Birch House. I may have been somewhat over-zealous – he was shrieking so much after 10 strokes of Miss Whippy that I had to gag him with a pair of my rather voluminous pantaloons. Not that that prevented him from displaying a huge – for him – erection by the conclusion of his 36 strokes!

The new day dawned and while Mr Pain was off to his job as clerk at some insignificant but highly regarded local accountant's office, I prepared for my visit to Mrs Ramsbottom and Birch House.

I chose a pair of fairly loose fitting French directoire knickers – black, of course, and a black satin brassiere for my rather large 44DD breasts. I pulled on some shiny black seamed, hold-up stockings, black flat-bottomed shoes – no high heel nonsense, you can't dare the risk of slipping in mid-stroke during a flogging, can you? Over it all I pulled a night black velvet dress, which came from neck to knees. I had my hair dragged back in a severe bun. I looked somewhat haughty – and haughty is, of course, how I wished to look.

At the appointed time, I presented myself to Mrs Ramsbottom's office and was ushered into her spacious working quarters by the obsequious little Miss Carter.

Mrs Ramsbottom offered me a glass of sherry – not Bristol Cream, alas, but some mild little pee-coloured thing. Still, any port in a storm – or should that be sherry? Pardon my slight joke.

"You suggested some refinements in our disciplinary procedures," said Mrs Ramsbottom, as I sipped on my sherry. I liked that, a woman who comes straight to the point.

I explained to her my thoughts on the women being naked for their punishments and having to count out the stroke and thank me for each delivery. For a moment I took her silence to be a refusal to meet my requirements, but then she broke into a broad smile.

"Excellent, my dear Mrs Pain," said the head. "I think they will make exquisite additional touches to our little after-school sessions. And I'm sure matron will approve, she thinks I am far too lenient with our little miss-no-gooders."

Mrs Ramsbottom said that she had been thinking about a title for me in my new position at Birch House.

"I intend to call you the CO," she informed me.

"Commanding officer?" I said, my voice displaying my surprise.

Mrs Ramsbottom laughed. "No, my dear Mrs Pain, CO as in Corrections Officer. But it has a nice, commanding sort of ring to it, doesn't it?"

I nodded. CO – very military. I liked it. Military discipline is all right in my book, or rather was, until the British army went all namby-pamby on us.

The headmistress then perused a sheet of paper lying on her spotlessly clean desk. "For your first subject we have Anna, an 18-year-old who is to receive six strokes," she said. "Her first taste of the rod at Birch House."

The second "subject", as Mrs Ramsbottom put it, would be a 19-year-old named Mary-Jane, who was also to receive six strokes. She was, apparently, no newcomer to the caress of the cane.

"And last, but by no means least," she said, "we have Karla, who is 20 and the school heroine. A tough nut – well, she thinks she is. I hope you may persuade her that she's just one of the girls. She is to receive 12 strokes for gross impertinence."

She passed me three sheets of paper with head and shoulders pictures of the trio selected for punishment. Anna was a stunning-looking blonde, Mary-Jane a plain-looking, pouting brunette, and Karla a fiery-eyed black girl, with sensual, thick lips. I licked my own lips as I looked at her – she was going to be fun!

"I have selected three canes of the Miss Whippy variety for the whippings," said Mrs Ramsbottom, who had obviously been appraised of my preferences in rods of discipline by Miss Buxton. "Both the canes for Anna and Mary-Jane are lightweights, but I've selected a light-heavyweight for Karla."

I nodded my approval. "Excellent," I said, draining my sherry glass. "Shall we start?"

Mrs Ramsbottom stood and pushed her chair away and called "Carter!" in her stern headmistress voice. The secretary peeped in the door. "Fetch matron – oh, and are our trio of flagellants waiting in your office?"

Miss Carter nodded: "Yes, madam, they've been here for 10 minutes. I'll get Mrs Arbuthnot."

I stepped towards a leather bench in the centre of the office. "This is where you punish them?" I asked.

"Yes, they bend over it," said Mrs Ramsbottom.

"Well, for my requirements they half-bend, keeping their arms straight and their hands flat down on the leather," I explained. "Too much tension in their buttocks and the skin can break. Can't have that."

"Exactly," said Mrs Ramsbottom, then matron entered the office.

A tall, dark-haired, fierce-looking woman walked up to me. About 40 years of age she had steely grey eyes and a fine figure.

"My dear Mrs Pain," she said, taking my hand, "I'm delighted to make your acquaintance. I'm glad that at last we have a person here who can deliver the type of discipline which these young lasses require. No more beating about the bush – strict, stern discipline, eh?"

I smiled. A woman after my own heart. Then Miss Carter entered the room again and announced: "Pupil Anna, headmistress."

A lovely, tall blonde girl entered, in her school uniform of white blouse, gym slip and flat shoes. She was pretty and she looked well built.

Mrs Ramsbottom approached her. "Right, Anna, get your clothes off – all of them. Place them in a neat pile in the far corner, then bend over the leather bench, hands palm down on each side. Hurry up, girl."

I watched intently as the 18-year-old divested herself of her blouse and gym slip, then unhooked her pink bra and peeled off her matching panties. Her breasts were large, proud globes. Her nipples were large and erect. Her pussy was covered in a light thatch of fair hair. Her buttocks were lush and prominent – just made for the merciless Miss Whippy!

The youngster walked to the bench, turned her back to me and bent over until her palms were face down on the leather.