How could he, she wonders again, how could he be doing this to her?
She had thought the brutality of her last punishment from him – six cold cuts across her palms, delivered by the rattan cane that hangs behind his desk – was as bad as it could get. She had dreaded a repeat performance today.
But never could she have guessed that it would be this.
A girl, in the first flourishing throes of womanhood, bent over his knee like some silly oversized infant across the paternal lap to receive what he had referred to, just ten minutes before, as a “very sound smacked bottom”.
And as if even that wasn’t dreadful enough, here he was fussing with her skirt, pulling and folding in an age-old ritual experienced by many thousands of her kind before, to prepare her tightly knickered bottom for punishment.
How could he, she wonders again, as the first sobs come, oh how could he?