The Headmaster

Fiona sat in her car for long moments, her head leaning toward the open window and exhaling puffs of smoke as she readied herself for the situation ahead of her. She glanced back and forth at the little gold-bracelet style watch on her wrist, shaking her head, and sighing through her nostrils each time.

As her lips wrapped around the butt for the last time, she sucked deep, held it, and let it go in one, steady, cloudy stream.

"OK, let's get this over with," she said, flicking the habitual implement to the tarmac outside. She eyed herself in the rear-view mirror, straightened a stray tendril of hair just to the left of her forehead, and climbed out of the vehicle.

Her expensive heels clicked and clopped on the ground, the lull between each footfall lengthening as she approached the large, main doors of the school building. She peered through the expansive panes of glass to the empty corridors, and unmanned reception desk just inside. Another sigh. She nudged her shoulder against the entrance and walked into the lion's den.

"Can I help you?" A chirpy, young voice sounded out from the ether, as yet unaccompanied by a physical form.

Fiona ran her gaze around the reception area, wondering where the hell the question came from.

"Sorry, down here," the voice said.

She looked down behind the desk, and spotted a bobbing, blonde ponytail.

The attractive, young woman stood up, balancing some books in the crook of one arm, and beaming her best, most professional smile. "Can I help you?" Her gesture didn't budge from her lips as she spoke, not an awful lot unlike a ventriloquist's dummy.

"I have an appointment," Fiona said, retrieving her bag from her shoulder and fishing for the letter.

The receptionist laid down her load and typed something into the computer. "Mrs Jennings?"

Fiona nodded, her digits still searching for the envelope and its contents amidst the debris of her bag.

"Mr Grahams will be waiting for you," the girl said, her smile still bright and affixed to her lips like a glued-on badge.

"But, I'm early," Fiona murmured, throwing the black, leather strap of her bag back over her shoulder and guiding the full weight of the thing to nudge against her ribs.

"I know." The receptionist walked out from the back of the semi-circular desk and pointed down to the end of the long corridor with a well-manicured, clear fingernail that shimmered under the ceiling lights. "It's just down there, the large room at the end, with a big gold plaque on the door." She paused, eyed the older woman for a second, and followed up with," Would you like me to show you?"

"No, that's fine. I'll find it.. Thank you," Fiona said, putting the clickety-clop of her heels to work again. She twitched her nostrils as the faint aroma of cleaning chemicals scratched at her senses. She slowed her pace as she reached the large, oak door. With a deep breath for luck, she reached out one hand and rapped her knuckles on the wood.

"Come in."

The voice echoed in Fiona's ears, deep, booming, authoritative. It reminded her of her own school days and the trouble that always seemed to find her. She pressed her small hand to the huge brass handle, aware that the furnishing made her limb look like that of a small child. Her mouth dried up and she ran her tongue around it in vain. She stepped inside with a flutter behind her ribs.

"Mrs Jennings?" He was tall, lean, somewhat overbearing.

Fiona nodded. Her eyes traced the hard-set lines of his face, begging to find the merest inkling of a smile or, indeed, any emotion at all. They found none.

"Please, sit down." He motioned to a plush, leather chair in front of his desk, studded around the edges by what looked to be little brass balls. Without waiting he sank himself back into his own seating, and leaned back to rest his elbows on the sides.

"Thank you," Fiona said, her heart beating a little faster by the second. She lowered herself into the leather and allowed it to swallow her small form.

Just like being at school.

"Thank you for coming here this afternoon, Mrs Jennings-"

"Please, call me Fiona," she said, offering a twitching, friendly smile.

"I don't think that would be appropriate, considering the circumstances," the headmaster said, his tone a little heavier, maybe even a shade darker. "This is a very serious matter, Mrs Jennings."

Fiona did her best to inhale deeper, without giving away her nervousness. She slid both hands down to the tops of her thighs and rested them on her skirt. The fingers jostled with the material, unable to find peace.

She nodded at the older man.

"You know why you're here, Mrs Jennings." The headmaster leaned forward, as if to give heed that what he had to say was important. "Your son is in a lot of trouble." He folded his hands together and sighed through his flared nostrils while shaking his head with obvious disdain.

"I-" Fiona swallowed the word back from her throat. She flattened her lips and listened.

"He's been absent from school for four days in the last two weeks, Mrs Jennings." He lifted his gaze to observe the impact of his statement.

"Fiona nodded, aware of the evaporating what little moisture remained in her mouth. She clucked the width of her tongue in an attempt to gather up saliva. And found none.

"It's just not acceptable." The headmaster straightened up, peeled apart his long, bony fingers, and rifled them through a folder sitting on the desk in front of him.

"Well-"

"His studies are suffering as a result," he continued. "A fifteen per cent decline in his spelling test results, twenty-two per cent in the weekly arithmetic exams." He lifted his eyes again. "It just won't do."

"It's partly my fault," Fiona said, her voice little more than a timid mumble. She shifted her weight in the chair and coughed to clear her throat. "You see-"

"I understand, Mrs Jennings. I'm a parent myself. Of course you're going to try and defend your son, even accept part of the blame." His features softened for a split second, before springing back to their usual hard edges, as if brought back into line by a series of stiff, metal springs.

"No, but-"

"I've already made my decision, Mrs Jennings." The headmaster pushed himself back from the desk in a slow, fluent movement. He stood himself up, shook his head just enough to shake the small, circular framed glasses he wore, and the beady pupils behind them. "It's regretful, Mrs Jennings, but I'm going to suspend him for two weeks." He reached up onto the top compartment of a filing cabinet and retrieved a white, paper form.

"No, please." Fiona tried to swallow the crackle from her voice, coughed, and sucked a deep breath. "Mr Grahams, please you must listen to me."

He turned to face her, the top row of eyelashes on one eye visible over the top of his glasses.

"My son is a good boy," Fiona said. "His father and I have been having some troubles. That's the reason for the sudden change in his behaviour." She paused to gather her arguments. "You only have to look at his record to see he's had no problems in the past."

The older man nodded, but showed no emotion on the subject either way.

"I'm not just trying to defend him, because he's my son. Part of the blame is mine." Fiona bowed her head just a little, lowering her eyes to focus on her fingers that fumbled with each other in her lap. "It's not easy for him at the moment. It's not easy for any of us."

The headmaster muttered something under his breath, a syllable if anything, too short to be a word.

"It's not fair that he suffers for the failure of his parents." Fiona said, her tone growing higher and tighter. She pursed her lips together and exhaled, slow, in a bid to ebb the pace of her respiratory system. Her pulse rattled in her tensed joints.

The headmaster made his way back to his chair, eased himself into it, and eyed her for unending seconds. He nodded to himself. With one, lanky finger, he straightened the rim of his glasses, and nodded again.

"If you must punish someone, punish me," Fiona said. She widened her eyes and almost yelped as she realised her own words. But she didn't take them back.

"It's a nice sentiment, Mrs Jennings, but that's all it is. I can hardly suspend you, or give you lines to write on the blackboard." The faintest hint of a smile curved his thin, stiff lips, but faded in almost as soon as they appeared. He shook his head, "I have to stand by my decision."

"Surely there are other ways," Fiona said, her thoughts hurtling around her skull. "I have money. I can pay a fine... a donation to the school. There's always a need for more financing, for new sports equipment, furnishings, books." She peeled the strap of her handbag from her shoulder and hoisted it on top of the large table in front of her. "I can write you a cheque right now."

"I'm afraid that would just not be appropriate, Mrs Jennings." The headmaster leaned back and sighed. "Besides, it wouldn't be a very good example to set for your son, would it? To show him you can just throw money at your problems and make them go away?"

"Anything," Fiona said, her heartbeat now audible in her ears. She watched the older man's pupils bloat, swallowing up the white around them. "If you suspend him today, it'll appear on his record for the rest of his schooling days. It's not fair that he suffers that, because of my failing as a parent." Her voice crackled again, and swallowing didn't help much. "Please, I'll do anything. Name it."

The headmaster closed his eyes for a few seconds, eased them open, and sneaked the forefinger and thumb of his left hand into the top of his glasses to rub at the orbs. "I'm sorry, Mrs Jennings, I've made my decision."

"Please, Mr Grahams. Do you have children?"

"Yes, three."

"You must know what I'm going through. And you must understand that you would hate for your children to suffer because of your own shortcomings." She gave him a pitiful stare, her bottom lip quivering of its own accord.

"I really do appreciate your situation, Mrs Jennings. And I wish there was more I could do. Believe me, I'd like to help. But I have to answer to people, too."

"I promise you, Mr Grahams, if we can find a way, today, to settle this, I will do everything in my power to make sure this never happens again." Her wrists ached as her fists pressed tight into her thighs, as if powering her newfound bold tone.

"And how can we settle this today? Do you suggest we just forget about it? Or maybe I should have you stand in the corner for the rest of the afternoon, until you learn your lesson? Should I put you over my knee and administer the cane?"

Fiona sat bolt upright. Her heart pounded behind her ribcage, and she struggled to keep her breath.

"Yes."

She nodded, as if to emphasise her agreement. "If it helps- If it means my son will get another chance, cane me. Spank me. Punish me for not being there for my son, when he needed me." She jumped to her feet and stood in front of the desk, adrenaline empowering the tone of her voice, and making her almost light-headed in the process.

The headmaster chuckled. The sound spilled from his lips. As if he'd forgot to lock one of the doors he locked his emotions behind.

He shook his head. "That's just ridiculous."

"Please."

"Even if I wanted to do this," he said, still shaking his head. "Do you realise how much trouble I could get into for getting involved in such a thing?" He pushed his glasses back down over the bridge of his nose.

"I would never tell anyone. As far as I'm concerned, we had a meeting about my son, I realised the error of his ways, and we came to an agreement that he would get another chance to prove himself."

Fiona found herself edging closer to the desk. Until the tops of her thighs pressed against the hard wood. "Please."

The headmaster narrowed his eyes and parted his lips. "You're serious, Mrs Jennings, aren't you?"The little finger on his right hand twitched. Just a little. But enough to be visible.

"Very serious." Fiona shifted her feet on the hard floor, and one of the heels squeaked with the movement. She saw something in the older man's eyes. A glimmer. A chance at hope? In that second the clenched muscles in her entire body relaxed. She watched the tall, lean, well-dressed man stand up and run his gaze around the large, old-fashioned room.

He stopped long enough to fix her in his gaze.

"You're serious?"

Fiona darted her tongue through her lips and softened the dried out flesh. "Yes. I'm serious." She paused, closed her eyes. "Anything it takes." She opened them again, and waited for his reaction.

"OK."

This time she sighed without restraint. She stepped out from behind the desk, and made her way toward the older man, her pulse still as fast, but now for very different reasons. "Where- How-"

The headmaster shook his head, the definite stirrings of a smile curling his lips. "Here will do," he said, pointing to the side of the desk with a stiff, long finger. "Bend over."

Fiona shuffled her feet to the correct place, sucked a deep lungful of air, and leaned across the furniture. She flattened her hands out in front of her, pushing a few items of stationary out of her way. Her nipples stiffened against the wood, and she didn't quite know if it was down to the cold contact, or some perverted sense of thrill. Or a little of both. A prickling shiver erupted through her spine, but did nothing to answer the question.

The older man moved behind her, his shoes scraping at the wooden floor.

Fiona stretched her arms around the sides of the desk and gripped the hard edges tight enough that her pulse throbbed in her knuckles. She eased the pressure and remembered to take a breath.

Oh God.

"Your skirt."

"What?"

"Please lift your skirt up." The headmaster spoke with little to no emotion, as if asking her to lift her feet while he hoovered beneath them.

"I-" Fiona shook her head and stammered for something resembling a word. "That's-"

"Mrs Jennings, are you going to do this or not?" The older man didn't move, and his tone offered no sense of urgency, or frustration. Just matter-of-factness.

"I'm a married woman," Fiona whined, gripping the desk tighter and sucking deep breaths against the surge of adrenaline dizzying her senses. She slid the heels of her shoes across the floor and pinched her ankles tight together. "I can't."

"Our business is done for the day, Mrs Jennings."

She heard the older man move, and what sounded like the pages of a book ruffling. Her breathing remained fast, her mind swirling. She stood up and turned to face him, and sighed. In front of her, carrying on as if nothing had happened at all, the headmaster returned a few books to the shelves that covered the perimeter of the room. At that very second something snapped in Fiona's subconscious.

Suspension or spanking. He's happy either way.

She nodded to herself, knowing full well he couldn't see it. "OK. I'll do it."

No other option. There's just no other option.

The well-dressed professional continued to sort his leather-bound tomes.

Fiona watched and waited for what seemed like a day and a half. She kept her eyes locked on his every movement.

"Assume the position," he said, calm and collected.

"What?" Fiona stepped back a little, taken by his sudden acknowledgement of her existence. Her fingers squirmed by her sides, and her feet turned into blocks of the heaviest iron.

"Bend over, Mrs Jennings." The older man replaced the last book, turned, and waited with cold, patient eyes surveying her actions.

Fiona reached her arms back out to the sides of the desk, pinched her fingers around the wood. She lowered her body across the flat surface until her stiffened nipples pressed hard into it. She inhaled a sharp, shallow breath as they tingled and grew even more erect.

"Your skirt, Mrs Jennings."

Fiona inhaled deep, pushed out her bottom lip and did her best to aim her exhalation over the burning skin of her cheeks. She tugged one hand free from the desk and used it to peel the hem of her skirt up over one knee, and a few inches up her thigh. The cool air of the room lapped at her exposed flesh, and forced her to close her eyes for a split second.

"Higher," the headmaster instructed, his voice as indifferent as ever.

Fiona moved faster, pulling the material until the pad of her forefinger brushed against the silk of her black panties. She gulped hard in a bid to moisten her tightening throat.

"And the other side," the older man said.

Fiona switched hands. She hoisted the rest of her skirt up over her thigh, and the back of her panties. The tip of her tongue nestled between her lips as she resumed her grip on the desk, her heartbeat thudding through her body and into the wooden surface like a drum. She pinched her ankles tight together and waited.

"First, Mrs Jennings, I will administer ten spanks with the palm of my hand."

She nodded and held her breath. The muscles of her face tightened and scrunched in anticipation. The room blurred. Just for a second.

Crack!

Fiona yelped like an admonished child. The sound lingered worse than the physical pain, which subsided to an uncomfortable heat on her skin. She straightened herself up and braced for the next one.

Crack!

Crack!

She yelped twice in quick succession, the latter turning into a mumbled protestation. The pain remained on her flesh now, a hot sting that spread across her bum. She gripped tighter at the desk and tensed her joints until they ached.

Crack!

Crack!

Her knees wobbled and almost buckled beneath her. She laid her weight further forward onto the desk, just in case. Her breathing rustled between her clenched teeth, in and out, in and out, faster with each repetition. She closed her eyes hard, tried to imagine something else, but opened them again as her whole world became the burn in her buttocks and the heightened sensitivity of her nipples pressed hard into the wood. They were also rubbed raw by the slightly rough material of her bra.

Crack!

That one hurt. She bit down on her bottom lip and swallowed the urge to cry out in anger. A tear bubbled in the corner of one eye but found no release.

Crack!

Crack!

Crack!

Her limbs weakened as the sharp bolts of pain ripped through her flesh. She flopped her weight down onto the desk, and her knuckles eased their grip on the edges. One cheek moistened as a tear found its escape, and trickled off the side of her face.

Only one to go.

She clenched her teeth hard against each other. Braced her shoulders.

Nothing. Her jaws ached, but paled in significance to the warm, radiating sting that throbbed through her bottom and into the tops of her thighs. She stole a few quick breaths and found the strength to straighten herself up for the final blow.

Crack!

A yell tore free from her throat and barged its way through her lips. Without time to think, she jumped upright, twisted her torso as far as she could, and used the flattened palm of one hand to rub at her agonizing buttocks. The heat of her punishment worked its way through her panties and into her not-so-soothing fingers. She sucked air through her teeth and eased the contact.

The headmaster fumbled with something, unseen.

Fiona pressed down the sides of her skirt, arching her back as the fabric wrinkled over her bottom. She winced, and continued until the hem ruffled around her knees.

"I'm not finished," the headmaster said, his tone a little deeper than before.

"What?"

"Please pull your skirt up again. I'm not finished."

Jesus Christ.

Fiona eyed him for long, painful seconds, not quite sure whether to believe him or not. With a petulant sigh, she pulled her clothing back into place just as instructed, and reached her arms out across the desk again.