A VISIT TO THE HEADMASTER
By Fidelis Blue
'Stand up, that girl!'
Suddenly there was silence in the classroom. A girl at the back pointed to
herself and said, almost in a whisper, 'Me, miss?'
'Yes, you, girl.'
Hesitantly the girl got to her feet.
'What were you doing?'
'Nothing, miss.'
'Don't lie to me, girl.'
Miss Jessop strode purposefully between the rows of desks to where the girl
stood, her hands nervously clenched.
'Give it to me,' Miss Jessop ordered.
'Give what, miss?' the girl asked in a forlorn attempt at deception.
Miss Jessop stood with arm outstretched. After a lengthy pause, the girl
let drop a piece of folded paper into the schoolmistress's open palm. Miss
Jessop opened the paper and quickly scanned its contents.
'Out to the front,' she commanded.
All eyes followed the wretched girl to the front of the class. Miss Jessop
picked up the wooden ruler which lay on her desk and tapped it lightly on her
palm. A pity the good old days were gone, she thought, the days when such
offences were dealt with in the proper manner. A few sharp strokes of the ruler
on the outstretched palms, or better still on her bottom, as the girl touched
her toes; that was the way to enforce discipline. But all that was outlawed now,
more's the pity.
'Now, Felicity Bradshaw,' Miss Jessop said, 'perhaps you would like to read
to the class what this note says.'
'No, please, Miss Jessop,' the girl pleaded. Miss Jessop liked it when they
begged. It meant they feared her. And no class could be ruled without fear.
'Very well,' Miss Jessop said. 'I shall read it.'
The girl's face had gone bright red. The other girls sat transfixed by this
drama of exposure and retribution. All felt a guilty relish at their unfortunate
classmate's predicament; glad to be a participant in the drama, even more glad
to be only a spectator.
'Billy Russell has the biggest dick in school,' Miss Jessop read in a loud,
clear voice. 'I know cos I sucked it last night.'
There was a deathly silence, punctuated only by a single titter.
'Disgusting,' said Miss Jessop. 'Not only shall you go to see the
headmaster. Your father too shall see this note.'
'Oh, no please, Miss Jessop,' the girl said, a note of real desperation in
her voice. Miss Jessop knew that some parents meted out far harsher punishments
than the teachers were allowed to impose.
'Go and stand in the corner with your hands on your head. Now the rest of
you girls, get on with your work and if I hear a single one talking you will be
sorry. Very sorry.'
Miss Jessop sat down at her desk, gratified by the silence that now reined.
She knew she already had the reputation as the strictest teacher in the girls'
school, but its preservation required constant reinforcement. Everything about
her appearance was designed to project an image as a stern taskmistress of the
old type, from her hair pinned back in a severe bun to her sensible, low-heeled
shoes, below dark stockings and a grey worsted skirt of mid-calf length.
Habitually she dressed to look older than her thirty-one years; above her skirt
she wore, invariably, a crisp white cotton blouse with a close-fitting jacket
or, as today, a woollen cardigan. Had the viewer been permitted to peer beneath
these garments, he would have discovered an old-fashioned girdle of the kind in
vogue thirty years ago, and a matching brassiere of the era. Heavy, horn-rim
spectacles completed the picture. She never wore make-up, or jewellery except
for a watch, though she allowed herself a discreet dab of rose-water at the nape
of the neck.
Ten minutes later the bell rang for the end of class. Miss Jessop dismissed
the girls and told the now tearful Felicity that she must report to the
headmaster at the end of the day. Miss Jessop sat on at her desk. She opened the
lid and took out her lunch box. Turning the pages of a new book she had just
bought on the early history of feminism, she began to read as she ate her
sandwich. After half an hour she stood up and made her way to the staff room,
where there was a teachers' meeting.
The headmaster presided. He got through the business rapidly and the
meeting soon broke up. Miss Jessop waited patiently while the headmaster
conversed with Mr Wilton, the new French teacher, a young man of perhaps
twenty-five. Miss Jessop noted his good looks, his dark, wavy hair worn rather
too long, she thought, and his full mouth, promising a passionate nature. But so
far he had shown no sign of even noticing the severe and forbidding figure of
Miss Jessop. When at last he moved away, she approached the headmaster.
'I've sent a girl to see you,' she said. 'Felicity Bradshaw, a persistent
offender whom I caught passing this dirty note.'
She handed the offending piece of paper to the headmaster. 'She needs firm
handling. Very firm.'
'Yes, Miss Jessop,' said the headmaster, looking at the note thoughtfully.
'Quite so.' He reached into his pocket, glanced around to see he was unobserved,
then handed Miss Jessop a piece of paper in return. Hurriedly she scanned its
contents.
'Very well, headmaster,' she said. Only the most observant would have
noticed the slight blush on her cheek.
The afternoon passed quietly as Miss Jessop took her classes through the
intricacies of nineteenth-century electoral reform and the shifting allegiances
of the Seven Years War. When classes finished at four, she drove home and made
herself a cup of tea, then sat in contemplation of what the evening would bring.
A period of quiet reflection and anticipation was essential to create the right
mood. At eight o'clock she drove to the headmaster's house and let herself in
quietly with her key. As usual, she went to a small dressing room off the main
hallway. One by one she stripped off the items of clothing she had been wearing
since that morning. When she was naked she looked at herself in the full-length
mirror. On the whole she was pleased with what she saw: a figure of above
average height, slim but with full breasts, the nipples small but well-formed,
hardening slightly on exposure to the air. The belly was firm, curving
delicately down to the prominent mons, with its sharply defined triangle of dark
hair, neatly trimmed. Turning to one side, she inspected her bottom, the
buttocks high and round, the skin smooth and unblemished. She was glad to see
the marks had all healed.
She unpinned her thick, dark hair, then began to carefully braid it into
pigtails, tying each end with a strip of white satin ribbon. When she was
finished she drew on a pair of white cotton knickers, cut full in the
old-fashioned way. She fastened the matching cotton bra and pulled on white
ankle socks. A freshly ironed white cotton blouse was next, in a style similar
to that she wore every day. It buttoned all the way up to the neck, and was worn
with a purple and black striped tie, which she knotted with precision; the
headmaster was apt to pick on anything untidy. Next she stepped into her pleated
navy blue skirt. Unlike the skirt she wore to work, it was short, four or five
inches above her bare knees. Now all that remained were her black leather shoes,
flat-heeled, with straps across the top.
She turned around two or three times, inspecting herself in the mirror.
Then she opened the door and walked down the hall, stopping to knock at a door.
'Come in,' a voice called.
The headmaster sat writing at a large antique desk. On top of the suit he
had been wearing at lunchtime he now wore a black academic gown. He continued
writing, without looking up as Miss Jessop closed the door after her and
approached to stand in front of him. Only after several minutes did he raise his
eyes.
'Well?'
'Caroline Carstairs, headmaster.'
'What do you want, Carstairs?'
'I've been told to report, sir.'
The headmaster looked at her sternly.
'What for?'
'Matron told me, sir.'
The headmaster peered at her over the top of his spectacles.
'Ah, yes, I remember. Interfering with one of the other girls.'
'No, sir,' she said. 'I wasn't.'
'Be quiet,' he snapped.
He shuffled some papers on his desk. 'Yes, here we are. Once again, the
usual things: running in the corridor, talking after lights out, late for
class.'
He paused, then looked more closely at the piece of paper he was holding.
'And smoking in the boiler-room. You know how much I disapprove of that filthy
habit. I'm determined to stamp it out.'
She was silent, looking down at the ground.
'But that's not the worst, is it? Matron has told me what she found. Being
rightly suspicious of what was going on, she crept up on you in the dorm and
when she pulled back the bed clothes, what did she see?'
Still she was silent.
'Daisy Thorpe in your bed, naked.'
'Yes, sir,' she said. 'But I can explain.'
'How can you explain that?' the headmaster demanded.
'Daisy had a sore place. I was trying to make it better.'
'With your head between her legs?'
'Kissing it better, sir.'
For a moment she thought he might smile. Instead, his face grew more stern.
'It is the business of this school to train young girls to be the wives of
English gentlemen. As such, their principal duty is to provide for their
husbands' sexual satisfaction. These disgusting sapphic practices, which now
appear rife in this school, are an abomination which threatens the very fabric
of society. How can a girl make a good wife if she has been so corrupted that
she prefers the embraces of her own sex?'
Again she was silent. Protest, she knew, was not only useless; frequently
it made matters worse.
'Unfortunately, that is not all, is it?'
'Isn't it, sir?'
'Mr Wilton, the French master came to see me after school. He said that you
had been to his room to contest a mark awarded for French dictation. When he
refused to change the mark, you apparently raised your skirt.'
'Mr Wilton said that, sir?' Her pulses were racing as she visualised the
scene.
'Naturally he told you not to be a silly girl and to remember your modesty.
But instead you put a hand inside your knickers. You said that your father would
take his belt to you if you didn't get a better mark. Mr Wilton said that was
not his concern. You then told him that if he would improve your mark he might
put his hand where yours was. He ordered you to leave the room. You pulled your
knickers down, exposing yourself, and said he might do anything he pleased with
you, if only he would be lenient, at which point he opened the door and ordered
you to leave.'
'No, sir. It wasn't like that at all,' she protested. 'He called me to his
room and asked me if I wanted a better mark. When I said yes, he asked me to
lift my skirt. He then put his hand up between my legs and felt me. I told him
to stop but he said if I didn't let him do as he wanted, he'd report me for
trying to seduce him.'
The headmaster glared at her. 'These are outrageous lies, a slur upon the
honour of a respectable man. You shall be punished most severely.'
'But that's not fair, sir,' she pleaded. 'What happened wasn't my fault.'
'And what did happen?'
'Well sir, I let him pull my knickers down and then he put his finger in my
little slit and he pulled out his thing and made me put my hand around it, and
then he made me bend forward over his desk and he pushed his thing into me, all
the way up.'
'How dare you tell such falsehoods!' the headmaster cried. 'I shall make an
example of you, you wicked, lying girl.'
He stood up and came round behind her. Pushing her head down, he bent her
over the desk. He lifted her skirt right up to her waist, then in a single
practised movement slid her knickers down as far as her knees. Her bare bottom
felt horribly exposed.
'Stay there and don't move,' he said. The headmaster opened a drawer in his
desk and took out a heavy black leather strap, about three inches wide. Holding
it firmly at one end, he suddenly brought it down hard upon the top of the desk.
She jumped at the loud crack it made.
'You shall have the strap for all your misdemeanours,' he said. 'But for
the more serious offences it will have to be the cane.'
She expected no less, yet even so the mere mention of the cane was enough
to set her heart pounding. Would she be able to endure? Before each episode she
made sure she was mentally braced, in the right frame of mind to withstand
whatever might come. Yet always the ordeal was physically just that much harder
than before. It seemed as though the headmaster always knew just how much
further to take her, although each time she believed she must have reached her
limit.
She gripped the edges of the desk, while at the same time forcing the
muscles of her buttocks to relax. The pain was always worse if you tried to
fight it. Better to let it come to you, absorb it, even welcome it. At least
this was her theory, but it wasn't always easy to put it into practice when the
blows were raining down. She took several deep breaths as the headmaster
positioned himself behind her. He raised his arm high and brought it down
swiftly. The strap struck her full across the centre of her bottom, the force
equally distributed on both cheeks. She clenched her teeth and waited for the
next blow. As ever, the headmaster took his time. He had once explained the
philosophy behind his technique, that a measured approach led to greater
accuracy, which was crucial in ensuring that each blow produced the maximum
effect. Though, he said, he did not always wish to land every blow in exactly
the same spot, sometimes looking for a wider distribution if only to make a
pleasing pattern upon a pretty posterior, in principle the force of each blow
was greatly augmented by aiming it at the same spot as the previous one. For
that, accuracy was essential. Another reason for not rushing things, he went on,
was that each blow ought to have sufficient time to sink in fully; a too rapid
application risked dissipating the full force of each individual stroke.
The second stroke, as she expected, landed exactly on top of the first. She
grunted as her tender flesh bore the stinging pain. It was a matter of pride
that she took her punishment without resistance or complaint. At first the
headmaster had bound her wrists, but now that she was habituated she was left
unfettered. She knew that any attempt to deflect the force of the blows, putting
out a hand or wriggling to one side, would only prolong the punishment. More
importantly, it would diminish the respect he had for her fortitude, a respect
she valued too much to risk its loss. She always tried not to make a sound. But
that was not easy as the headmaster warmed to his task and the beating mounted
to its climax,. Indeed, she knew that those few sounds which managed to escape
her lips were important clues to her state of mind. A few minor grunts or moans
meant only that the whipping or caning was taking its effect. But a cry of pain
indicated that she was approaching her limit, since he knew she would never make
such a sound otherwise. As yet, she had never once begged for mercy, though she
had come close. It was a measure of his skill that he could bring her to the
point where she feared she must at last entreat him to desist, and then break
off just in time, leaving her pride intact.
The third blow fell exactly upon the other two. Perhaps the strap was not
the worst, but wielded in the headmaster's determined manner, it hurt quite
enough. Once more the strap made its loud thwack upon her white, beautifully
curved bottom, which already, she knew, must be turning pink. A fifth stoke
caught her just below the buttocks, at the top of her thighs. It stung worse
than the others. She could not say why it was so, but perhaps the skin was more
tender there. Yet another blow came just on that same spot, before the
headmaster moved up to the top of the buttocks, just where they commenced their
lovely, graceful swelling outward. Three more arrived at regular intervals upon
the same place, then the strap moved once more to the centre of her now
quivering behind. At last the headmaster put down his weapon.
'Now,' he said, 'before I proceed with the more serious punishment, I shall
give you an opportunity to recant. If you do, I may somewhat mitigate your
chastisement. Let me hear you say that you repent of your lewd behaviour with
that other girl. And tell me that your indecent slander of Mr Wilton was nothing
but a pack of lies. If you beg forgiveness on your knees, I will go a little
easier on you.'
She was silent. Oh, she was tempted to plead for mercy all right. She knew
what was in store. Already she could imagine the cane whistling down, the shock
of the pain, nothing like it, so direct, so penetrating, right into her
quivering centre. How easy it would be to say a few words, mumble something
about being sorry. But she couldn't do it. Her pride wouldn't let her. She knew
some might find that strange, that a submissive such as herself could have
pride. But it was true. She trembled at the thought of the agony she must
endure. The headmaster was implacable. If she did not repent of her crimes, he
would extract the full penalty. But the greater the suffering the greater the
glory, if she could only win through to the other side with her head held high.
To submit to the worst that could be done to her, to take her medicine 'like a
man', that was the thing.
And there was not only pride to think about. There was the pleasure of
pain, the promise of that moment, so hard to attain yet so rewarding when it did
come, when the searing agony turned to ecstasy, when the endorphins kicked in
and her blood sang and her flesh glowed and the more he beat her the closer she
got to nirvana, a state beyond pleasure and pain, where the two were one,
indivisible, and the more the pain increased the more rapture she felt. That was
worth suffering for.
'So,' the headmaster said after a lengthy pause, 'once more you show
yourself an obstinate and wilful girl. You will pay for it. If you deliberately
challenge me by your stubborn refusal to atone for your offences, then you have
only yourself to blame for the consequences.'
He opened the drawer in his desk and took out a long thin length of bamboo.
He swished it from side to side, testing its flexibility and aptness for the
task. The sound filled her with dread. Her knees were trembling, her blood had
turned to water. She clung harder to the side of the desk.
The headmaster found the range by tapping the cane lightly against her
tingling buttocks, now rosy red. There was a pause, during which she was once
more tempted to weaken and beg for mercy. But too late; she sensed rather than
heard his arm rise, then held her breath as it fell and the cane hissed through
the air. A split second after it struck her, a pain like no other sliced through
her soft, round buttocks. She scarcely heard the groan that issued from her
lips. Again she heard the cane fall, again the pain shot like an arrow into her
flesh. She was shaking uncontrollably now. The cane rose and fell, again and
again, the first few blows dissecting the dead centre of her buttocks. Then the
headmaster moved down, attacking the lower part of the cheeks, before moving to
the top. She half-hoped that he might stop there, but she knew there was more,
and the cane swished and smacked her again across the middle. She could
visualise the parallel lines of red weals, darker than the round, ripe,
leather-reddened cheeks.
But at last the magic was happening. Her whole behind felt aflame now,
burning with a fire that spread to the inside of her thighs and up between them,
swelling the lips of her sex, making her clitoris glow and tingle. Her eyes were
shining in triumph and she arched her back, lifting her bottom upwards,
entreating the cane to caress her. On rare occasions, just when she was on the
brink of calling out for mercy, the pain itself had been enough to induce a
spasm of ecstasy, a convulsion centred on her sex but which consumed her whole
body. If she could only endure for another moment, she thought such a climax
might come to her this time.
And then, just when she thought she was there, the headmaster laid the cane
down. She whimpered in disappointment. The headmaster went to the far end of the
room, where a wooden screen divided off a small ante-room. He drew the screen
aside. She twisted her head round and saw a man standing there.
'Do come in now and join us, Mr Wilton,' the headmaster said.
All this time, she thought to herself, all this time he's been in there,
listening and no doubt watching too, while I made up a story about him. Her
first response was shame, that she should be so easily found out, and that he
should see her naked and beaten in this way, a man whom she had scarcely been
introduced to and who now was revealed as complicit in the headmaster's scheme
to unmask her fabrications. She felt foolish, humiliated; and yet strangely
aroused to be so exposed. Now he knew what kind of woman she was; a woman who
would let men use her as they wished, who would humble herself before them,
submit to whatever punishments were meted out to her and never question by what
right they were administered. A woman who was brave enough to let them see what
she was, who hid nothing and apologised for nothing.
'As I explained,' the headmaster said, 'she is a stubborn and wilful girl
who refuses to mend the error of her ways. I doubt that further punishment will
produce the desired effect. I propose to try other measures.'
'I bow to your experience, headmaster,' the young man said. 'However, in
view of the fact that I am the one who has been slandered by this wanton little
slut, perhaps I may be allowed to try my arm?'
'Oh, of course,' said the headmaster. 'Ply the cane as you wish.'
Mr Wilton accepted the implement which the headmaster proffered. Once more
she braced herself. But this time it would be worse, she knew; much worse. Not
only had Mr Wilton indicated that he felt some personal motivation in the
matter. Not only would he be anxious to prove to the headmaster that he could
wield the cane with as much force and dexterity as anyone. Worse still, the
moment of bliss had passed. Her bottom still glowed with the heat of the
beating, but she knew from previous experience that further strokes now, after a
pause, would hurt much more. Her bottom was sorely bruised. Each stroke of the
cane would be agonising, but there was now no hope that it would build to
ecstasy. There was only pain in prospect, bitter, unendurable.
The first stroke fell exactly across the lacerated, burning centre of her
buttocks. She cried out, not a cry of mercy but a strange animal cry,
involuntary. The cane rose and fell. For all her pride, she now twisted this way
and that, anything to avoid its deadly persistence. But it was useless. The cane
seemed to pursue her, seeking out the most tender parts of her behind, biting
deep into the quivering flesh. Again and again she cried out. She thought that
soon she might lose her senses, fall into a faint. But at last Mr Wilton let the
cane fall on to the desk.
'One cannot but admire her courage, even if she is a disobedient little
trollop,' he said.
She smiled inwardly at the tribute. If only he knew how much this meant to
her.
'Quite so,' said the headmaster. 'But now I propose we try a different
approach. Recently I was at a conference of educationalists. At a seminar
entitled 'The problem of the delinquent girl' one of the speakers had some
interesting ideas. The common approach to wayward girls is to try to break their
spirit through physical punishment. But as he said, in certain difficult cases
the girls see this as a challenge and it only increases their resistance to
authority. He suggested that much of the trouble with these girls was caused by
an excessive amount of libido. The aim ought therefore to be to reduce it, not
suppress it. Suppression often leads to the perversion of the sexual instincts;
instead of healthy heterosexual intercourse these girls frequently indulge in
masturbation, lesbian sex and other deviant practices. If, he proposed, they
could instead be introduced to the pleasures of straightforward intercourse with
an experienced man, they might be weaned from their perversions. Of course, he
said, such a method is open to abuse, in which these unfortunate girls become
merely the playthings of those in authority. To ensure this did not happen, he
strongly recommended that this treatment be only carried out in the presence of
two or more qualified teachers. Hence my invitation to you to join us, Mr
Wilton.'
She listened to this with some considerable surprise. So Mr Wilton had been
invited not just in order to add his own punishment for her calumnies against
him, but to participate in this novel scheme to reform her character. Well, she
thought, I'm perfectly willing to be persuaded of the delights of heterosexual
intercourse, as it were the dessert after the main course.
'So the plan is that we fuck her into good behaviour?'
'Quite so,' the headmaster said. 'Should you like to go first, Mr Wilton?'
'Willingly,' the other replied. She heard the sound of him unzipping his
trousers, next felt him touch her sex, prising apart the lips before lodging his
cock at the entrance to her cunt. Then with a single movement he inserted
himself, sliding easily right up inside the well-lubricated passage. He withdrew
a little way, then pushed in again and began to fuck her with a steady rhythm.
At the same time, the headmaster drew near and slipped a hand between her legs
from the front, his well-practised fingers immediately finding her swollen
clitoris, still tingling from the stimulation of her beating. The headmaster
manipulated her skilfully, caressing the little bud as Mr Wilton fucked her.
Just before Mr Wilton ejaculated, the headmaster brought her to her climax.
Mr Wilton withdrew. She remained bent over the headmaster's desk. The hot,
thick stuff he had deposited began to seep out of her. She would have liked to
wipe herself, but she knew better than to move without permission.
'Whatever her deviations,' said the headmaster, 'I think she enjoys a
regular servicing.'
'Evidently,' Mr Wilton agreed. 'And do you care to avail yourself of her?'
'Oh, indeed,' the headmaster said. 'But just before I do...'
He opened the drawer to his desk. For a moment her heart sank as she feared
yet another beating. Instead, the headmaster took out a large pink vibrator.
'Just to make sure we've siphoned off enough of her libido,' he said.
'Perhaps you wouldn't mind doing the honours while I fuck her.'
She heard the headmaster unzip, then felt the familiar touch of his cock
sliding into her. He began to fuck her long and slow, with a measured rhythm. Mr
Wilton set the vibrator humming, then applied it between her legs. She caught
her breath as her clitoris, already sensitised by its previous excitement,
tingled almost unbearably. She would have liked to prolong the pleasure, but the
machine was going too fast to be denied, and she came before the headmaster had
finished. After her orgasmic convulsions she lay still as he continued to thrust
into her, until at last she felt his cock twitch and spurt.
When the headmaster had done himself up he told her that she might go.
Taking a tissue from a box on the desk, she wiped herself between the legs, then
drew up her knickers. The two men ignored her; already they had started up a
conversation about a school matter. She went out, closing the door behind her.
It was the way she liked to leave, without farewells, without gestures of
affection or otherwise. In the study she didn't even have a name. Though the
headmaster had invented a fictitious identity for her, she never thought of
herself as Caroline Carstairs. To herself she was anonymous, not Caroline, nor
Miss Jessop, just the woman who must be disciplined. It was easier that way. She
wanted an absolute divide between her real life and her fantasy life. Once, a
long time ago, she had blurred the line between the two, with disastrous
consequences.
The next day in class, to outward appearances she was the same. Her only
concession to her ordeal was to leave off her customary tight girdle in favour
of a pair of loose-fitting knickers. And an observant pupil might have noticed
that she did not take her seat behind her desk, but remained standing. Otherwise
she was the same, still severe, still the strict disciplinarian.
'Now class,' she said. 'Let's see who's done their homework on the Seven
Years War. Who was Britain's main ally?'
Several of the girls raised their hands. But Miss Jessop had eyes for only
one, whose hand remained down.
'Bradshaw?'
'Yes, miss?' said the girl fearfully.
'Who was it?'
She thought, but knew it was hopeless.
'The USA, miss?'
'Stupid girl,' said Miss Jessop. 'The USA didn't even exist then. Clearly
you have not done your reading. Go to the front of the class.'
Miss Jessop knew that whatever punishment the girl had received from the
headmaster the day before, it would have been lenient compared to her desserts.
If only she were permitted to administer proper discipline, there would be no
problem with homework undone.
She kept the unfortunate girl in the corner till the class was dismissed.
'Now,' said Miss Jessop, 'what did the headmaster do to you yesterday?'
'He kept me in detention, miss. But that was nothing compared to what my
father did.'
'And what was that?'
The girl turned her back on Miss Jessop and slowly raised her skirt. Across
the back of her thighs was a series of dark red lines, edged in purple. Holding
her skirt with one hand, the girl pulled down one side of her white knickers,
revealing most of her right buttock. The red stripes were thicker there and more
livid in colour.
'Please don't tell my father again, miss,' the girl pleaded.
'But it seems you haven't yet learned your lesson.'
'Oh, I have now, I promise I have, Miss Jessop. It's just that he sent me
to bed and I couldn't get to my books. Please, miss, I'll be good now.'
'Very well,' said Miss Jessop. 'Make sure that you are. I shall be keeping
a close watch on you.'
Review This Story || Email Author: Fidelis Blue