F Campbell - Margo

Margo went back to her class to bask in the adoring regard of Emaline and several others she had rounded up. She was beginning to see the class as a saving grace to Rossland's severity. Her class learned from her and she from them. At the moment, they were dissecting Dylan Thomas. It was an island of serenity in an ocean of the bizarre. But throughout the morning, their pursuit of significance in the Welsh poet's eccentricities was interspersed with apprehensions of the afternoon. Margo's wrist was still sore from her night by her master's bed. It was an undoubted fact that Henry Ross was as much the headmaster of Rossland as Mildred Harridance was the headmistress. Neither was called on toe exhibit academic prowess. They were simply authority, with a capital A.

It pleased Henry Ross on this occasion to don an academic gown. He had found its effect potent on quaking maidens as they were drilled and punished. It was, in actuality, a cruel sport since the maidens themselves often entered his class in the belief that they might acquit themselves well and gain his approval. The older girls knew better. Margo herself had no hope of anything good.

The owner of Rossland chose a classroom in which to exhibit his talents and impose such torments as amused him on his unfortunate class. Five young women had been selected by Miss Harridance as possessing some evidence of delinquency. She had delegated them and given them some wise instructions of what no to do. It was understood that Margo should stand to one side as an observer and to offer information as desired, very much in a pupil-teacher relationship in the presence of an examiner. Except that two of her pupils were naked and one was handcuffed, everything had the delightful appearance of normalcy.

Margo was seeing a new side to her master. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes, and he wore the knowing smile which he often shared with her. As part of his charade, he conferred upon her an extreme dignity and was markedly polite in his address. Scared and trembling, the first maiden to be selected for his attention was not long in making an appalling gaff. The master stopped the proceedings, and in the deepest silence managed to convey a sense of shock that such stupidity could exist. The young woman stood, flushed and awkwardly shifting her feet.

It appeared that there was no second chance with the master. His voice was stern: "Would you kindly step before the class, Miss Winton?"

Miss Winton left the shelter of her class with obvious reluctance.

Perhaps she had been forewarned, but at any time, to be the sole offender of the master's regard was a terrifying thing. As she trod the short but dreadful space to where she must stand before her concerned companions, she strove to make amends. "Could I amend my answer, sir?"

"Silence!"

The young woman completed what was, for her, probably the most anxious journey of her life. She stood before the master and the class awaiting male pleasure.

"Kindly remove your clothes, Miss Winton."

It was not Miss Winton's first time to be publicly nude. Baring herself before the male was nothing new. Except, in this case, she knew she was going to be punished. She folded her garments neatly and stood before the headmaster with hands cupping her breasts. She was obviously fighting back tears.

"Are you afraid your mammary development will fall off, Miss Winton?" The acid query was heavily sarcastic. "I have better use for your hands. You'll hold them out, one at a time, to be caned."

There was a shocked silence. Miss Winton was most shocked of all. Her exclamation was entirely without volition.

"But, sir, I haven't done anything! I'm not a child anymore. Adults don't have their hands caned."

"They do at Rossland, Miss Winton. Kindly extend your arm its full length. Stretch your hand out so that the palm is tautly uppermost. I am waiting."

The frightened girl hesitantly obeyed. Margo realized there was little else she could do. Revolt or argument undoubtedly increase whatever is was she was now destined to suffer. Miss Winton stood, arm outstretched, hand tautly open, and watched the headmaster make his selection of canes from the rack. He swished his choice in obvious approval. Without preliminary tappings or gauging of distance, he cunt a single swift slash upon the open palm. Miss Winton remained in stricken shock for only a moment. Her hand then instinctively sought the bare armpit waiting to comfort it. She bent almost double, and small animal cries came chokingly from her lips.

This was the caning of a hand such as no other school had ever seen. The headmaster stood in exaggerated patience for almost a full minute before ejaculating, "I am waiting, Miss Winton."

"I can't. I'm sorry, sir, but I just can't hold my other hand out. I can't bear such awful pain."

Margo saw the gleam of satisfaction in the male eye. She saw the beckoning finger point to another of the already naked girls and beheld that maiden rise from her seat and walk unhappily to the front of the class. The male voice left nothing in doubt.

"Miss Winton, you see this young woman I have just called out to join you here before the class. I intend to thrash her until such time as you obey."

The girl looked sideways to instantly comprehend. Her voice was weak.

"No. Oh, please don't. I'll try and do what you want me to." The vivid tableau resumed. The second girl, at a nod from the man, returned to her seat. Miss Winton tried to stand erect and hold out as yet an uninjured arm. Margo would have found it impossible to enforce compliance. She could make a good guess at the horrifying intensity of the pain. But the headmaster was obviously pleased with himself and the manner in which things had progressed. This time he went to considerable trouble to tap the unwilling palm in make-believe gestures of gauging distance. Miss Winton closed her eyes. The blow, when it came, was as brutal as the first. The naked recipient now clutched two scalding palms within the shelter of moist armpits.

Unrestrained, she sobbed. The tears fell to the floor beneath her face.

"This is a ridiculous posture, Miss Winton." One could not fail to sense the man's savoring of each word. This was a theatrical production in which he was both director and the male lead. He would make the most of it. His tone, heavily sarcastic, he inquired politely, "You appear to be examining your cunt – is there something wrong with it?"

"No, sir, oh, ohhhh… it hurts. It hurts so bad!"

"Excellent. We are therefore ready for you first hand again. It should be well rested by now."

Once more the silence, the awful silence. She was contemplating something too awful for speech. Each girl present was placing herself in Miss Winton's place, knowing that she could not extend her arm a second time. Miss Winton herself called on all her heavy artillery and managed to speak firmly.

"I'm sorry, sir. It's not possible to hold my arm out again, and I don't think you have any right to hurt me so badly."

Can silence double its shocked intensity? It would appear now that this was happening. After her brave pronouncement, Miss Winton had relapsed to again hugging her injured hands and paying no attention to the rest of those present.

Henry Ross was entirely divorced from the executive type Margo had first seen in his office. He entered the world of headmaster perfectly as though long rehearsed and secretly lived. It was as though this was not play acting at all, but vividly real.

Once more his voice came, this time he was crisp.

"The class is tired of seeing your posterior. And I'm tired of seeing your bowed head. I was no more such pronouncements such as you have just made I hope you will not compel me to use one of your colleagues to induce you to behave. Now! Upright! Out with that hand."