Fiction: A Lesson in Tears (M/FFF, caning, school)

Who doesn’t like a good schoolgirl caning? Enjoy!

The corridor outside the headmaster’s office was unusually crowded for a midday hour, but no one was there by accident. Word had spread, as it always did, that three Fifth Form girls—Eleanor Hastings, Lydia Wallace, and Caroline Simmons—were about to receive the most severe punishment St. Bartholomew’s Academy had to offer.

The three girls sat side by side on the cold, hard wooden bench, hands trembling in their laps, their faces already pale with dread. They could hear faint rustling from within the office, the headmaster and Miss Bradshaw, his secretary, preparing for the first caning.

Eleanor sat in the middle, staring blankly ahead, hardly daring to breathe. To her left, Lydia kept blinking rapidly, as though trying to will away the inevitable. Caroline, to her right, chewed her bottom lip, her leg bouncing slightly with nervous energy.

Their hearts leapt into their throats when the door creaked open.

“Miss Hastings,” Miss Bradshaw’s sharp voice cut through the silence like a knife.

Eleanor nearly choked on her own breath. Her stomach twisted violently as she stood on unsteady legs, the world around her suddenly distant, unreal. She walked forward past Lydia and Caroline without a word, her feet leaden, her chest tight with the urge to sob before the punishment had even begun.

The door shut behind her, sealing her fate.

The moment she stepped inside, her eyes locked onto the cane lying on the desk—thin, cruel, and waiting. Headmaster Blackwood sat behind the massive oak desk, his expression unreadable. Miss Bradshaw, standing at his side, adjusted her glasses with an air of practiced indifference.

“You have flagrantly disregarded the rules of this institution,” the headmaster said, his deep voice commanding. “Such behavior demands a severe response. You will receive a dozen strokes of the cane. Miss Bradshaw will witness your punishment.”

Twelve.

Eleanor had been expecting six. Maybe eight. But twelve…

She choked back a sob, her legs trembling beneath her.

“Remove your blazer and lift your skirt,” came the unyielding command.

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her blazer. It took all her concentration not to drop it as she placed it neatly on the chair. She reached behind, gathering the pleats of her skirt with shaking hands, lifting it until her regulation white knickers were exposed.

“Bend over the desk.”

Her fingers pressed into the polished wood as she folded forward, her knickered bottom raised.

Behind her, she heard the faint swish of the cane being tested. Her whole body tensed. Canings were always given across the seat of a girl’s knickers. It added considerably to the embarrassment, having your knickered bum high as the headmaster canes it.

“Miss Bradshaw,” the headmaster’s voice cut through the silence. “Lower Miss Hastings’ knickers.”

Eleanor’s entire body stiffened. What…? No!

A fresh wave of humiliation crashed over her as the secretary stepped forward.

Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the woman’s fingers at her waist, cool and impersonal, tugging at the elastic waistband of her regulation white knickers.

The fabric began to slide down.

Inch by inch.

Her bottom was bared to the room.

She felt the cool air against her trembling skin, every second stretching into an eternity. The shame was unbearable—worse, in some ways, than the pain she knew was coming.

Miss Bradshaw lowered them just past the curve of her cheeks, then to mid-thigh, leaving them stretched taut.

“There,” she said briskly, stepping back.

Eleanor’s face burned with humiliation.

“Keep your hands flat on the desk, and do not move,” Headmaster Blackwood instructed.

Eleanor’s mind was a whirlwind of horror, disbelief, and a raw, searing humiliation that threatened to consume her entirely. Canings were always given across the knickers! That was the rule, the one thin layer of dignity that remained when a girl was bent over for punishment. But now, with her knickers humiliatingly stretched at mid-thigh, leaving her completely exposed, that small mercy had been stripped away.

She could feel everything—everything—sticking out, the shameful curve of her bare bottom high and vulnerable, her thighs trembling, the smooth expanse of skin on full display for Headmaster Blackwood and Miss Bradshaw. The cool air whispered over her bared flesh, sending a fresh shudder of mortification through her. He can see everything, she thought wildly, her stomach twisting. Not just her bottom but the humiliating shadowed cleft between her cheeks, the most private part of her, now utterly exposed.

Eleanor’s nails dug into the polished surface of the desk as she fought the urge to clamp her legs together, to twist away, to do anything but remain in this wretched, degrading position. She had never imagined this—never even considered that the headmaster would take such a step. The very thought of a girl’s bare bottom being caned was unthinkable. And yet here she was, bent far over with nothing to protect her from the cruel swish of the cane—or from the headmaster’s gaze.

Her face burned so hotly she felt faint, her entire body vibrating with embarrassment. She could hear him moving behind her, positioning himself, no doubt looking at her. She wanted to scream, to plead, to demand that she be allowed to retain even that last sliver of dignity. But she knew better. There was no escape from this now.

Miss Bradshaw’s presence only deepened the shame. The woman had bared her without hesitation, without sympathy, treating the exposure of Eleanor’s most intimate areas as nothing more than a routine task. She would watch the entire thing, standing off to the side with that impassive expression, witnessing every second of Eleanor’s punishment, every naked flinch, every pathetic squirm.

“Spread your feet slightly,” the headmaster’s voice came, calm and authoritative.

A strangled whimper escaped Eleanor’s throat. No, please… But her body obeyed before her mind could resist, her feet inching apart, widening her stance, stretching her knickers, making her feel even more vulnerable. She could feel herself opening up more, her bottom cheeks parting slightly, the exposure deepening, making her wish the floor would swallow her whole.

She bit her lip, trying desperately not to sob, her fingers pressing harder into the wood as she braced herself. The cane swished behind her, cutting through the air in a warning stroke. She flinched violently, her breath coming fast and shallow.

Outside, Lydia and Caroline sat frozen as the door muffled the final preparations. The corridor was eerily silent. Then—

CRACK!

Eleanor’s strangled scream echoed through the office and seeped into the corridor beyond.

Lydia jolted. Caroline gasped.

The passersby stopped in their tracks. Students, younger girls and older boys alike, turned toward the closed door, wide-eyed.

Then—

CRACK!

Eleanor’s sob tore through the hallway, raw and broken.

A Third Form girl clutched her friend’s arm. Some of the Sixth Form boys exchanged smirks, one of them whispering something to another. A group of Lower Fifth girls shuffled past in silence, eyes darting nervously toward the door.

Inside, Eleanor was breaking. The third stroke landed, and she let out a high-pitched wail, her legs shaking violently.

By the sixth, her sobs were continuous, her body writhing against the desk.

By the ninth, she was crying like a child, openly and uncontrollably, her face wet with tears.

The twelfth and final stroke landed with a sickening whip! across the already swollen welts. Eleanor shrieked, her voice hoarse with misery, her body slumping forward in total defeat.

Her weeping filled the room, her breaths shuddering, broken, her shoulders shaking violently.

“Remain in position,” the headmaster said over her crying.

Through the blur of pain, she barely registered the sound of a jar being opened.

“You will receive an additional measure of discipline.”

Then came the cream.

“The capsaicin cream will ensure you do not forget this punishment,” the headmaster said. “You will remain in position for five minutes while it properly penetrates, lest your soon to be returned knickers absorb any.”

The capsaicin cream was unlike anything she had ever felt. At first, it was merely an unwelcome warmth, spreading over her welted bottom as Miss Bradshaw’s gloved fingers worked it into every swollen stripe with cool efficiency. But within seconds, warmth became heat. And heat became an unbearable inferno.

It burned. Oh, how it burned!

A fresh, searing agony exploded across her welted bottom. The capsaicin burned like fire licking at her skin, intensifying every stripe, every welt.

Her wail was loud enough to be heard outside.

Caroline let out a small whimper at the sound. Lydia looked as though she might faint.

Eleanor sobbed and wriggled against the desk, desperate to escape the burning, but there was no escape.

A strangled moan tore from Eleanor’s throat as she kicked her feet helplessly, her knees knocking against the desk. She could not stay still. Her hips bucked involuntarily, writhing against the desk as though trying to escape the fire that now licked mercilessly at her swollen, punished flesh. But there was no escape.

Behind her, Miss Bradshaw’s pen scratched across the discipline ledger, utterly indifferent to the shameful display unfolding before her.

The heat deepened, intensifying with every passing second as the cream seeped into the raw, raised welts. Eleanor let out a high, broken sob, pressing her forehead against the desk, her entire body quaking with helpless misery.

Her thighs rubbed together, her toes curled in her shoes, her bottom flexing and clenching uncontrollably as the fire reached its peak.

“Remain still, Miss Hastings,” the headmaster’s voice cut through her whimpers, calm but firm as he observed her movements.

She couldn’t.

Her hips twisted, her bottom lifting slightly from the desk before she collapsed forward again with a pitiful moan. The unbearable need to move, to rub, to do something to ease the agony, had taken control of her body. She was making an absolute spectacle of herself, wriggling and squirming like a girl possessed, her punished flesh quivering under the relentless burn.

And yet, she knew it was all in vain. The capsaicin had done its cruel work—it had sunk into every stripe, ensuring the punishment would not fade even when her modesty was restored.

Minutes passed like hours.

Her breathing was ragged, her face pressed into the desk, her body slick with perspiration. Every attempt to still herself lasted no more than a few seconds before the unbearable fire made her writhe again, her bottom clenching and shifting, the humiliating display continuing.

A fresh wave of shame hit her as she imagined the sight she presented—bare-bottomed, bent over, shaking, gasping, wriggling like a miscreant who had completely lost her dignity.

From where he stood, Headmaster Blackwood had seen many girls punished over the years, but never had a miscreant presented such a wretched, thoroughly disgraced sight as Eleanor Hastings at this moment. Bent fully over the desk, her knickers cruelly stretched at mid-thigh, her hands gripping the polished wood in white-knuckled desperation—she was the very picture of humbled submission.

Her once-pristine uniform, so carefully pressed that morning, was now a disheveled mess. Her blazer was discarded on the chair, her pleated skirt bunched high around her waist, its schoolgirl modesty shattered. But all of that was secondary to the main spectacle—the very thing that made this punishment so unbearably shameful.

Her bare bottom.

The cane’s work was evident—angry crimson welts striped across her pale, trembling cheeks, raised in swollen ridges that spoke to both the severity of the punishment and the utter helplessness of its recipient. Each mark was a testament to her disgrace, a reminder of her utter lack of control. The shameful roundness of her bottom quivered and flexed involuntarily as she fought to withstand the cruel sting of the capsaicin cream, but there was no dignity left to preserve.

Worse still was the way she moved. Despite herself, despite the awful knowledge that she was being watched, she simply could not stop squirming. Her hips lifted slightly, her thighs squeezed together, her punished flesh clenching and shifting as the fiery burn of the cream sank deeper into her welted skin. It was not the controlled stillness of a girl enduring her just deserts—it was the pitiful writhing of someone broken, someone entirely lost to the overwhelming sensations tormenting her body.

Miss Bradshaw, ever the picture of efficiency, watched with clinical detachment, her pen scratching across the discipline ledger, making an official note of Eleanor’s punishment while the girl herself sobbed and writhed in agony before her. The sound of the ink scrawling against paper contrasted starkly with the gasping, hitching breaths of the punished girl, her sobs punctuated by humiliating little whimpers as she squirmed against the desk.

The secretary’s impassive gaze flicked up from the ledger, taking in the full scope of Eleanor’s degradation. The once-proud schoolgirl—one of St. Bartholomew’s brightest—was now nothing more than a thoroughly chastised, thoroughly exposed girl, openly weeping, her bare, welted bottom jerking and twitching under the relentless burn. Her thighs flexed and rubbed together in a desperate, fruitless attempt to alleviate the agony, her shame on full display for the room’s two silent observers.

The headmaster allowed the humiliating tableau to continue uninterrupted, his eyes fixed on Eleanor’s struggling form. The wriggling, the helpless twisting, the way her burning cheeks clenched and flexed—it all spoke to a girl who had been truly humbled, not just punished but utterly stripped of all dignity. It was a rare thing to see a girl in such a state, her normally strict composure shattered so completely, her misery laid bare as she fought against the inescapable torment of the punishment she had so richly earned.

He folded his hands behind his back, his gaze remaining fixed on the trembling girl bent over his desk. Eleanor Hastings was a proud girl—had always been. He had seen it in the way she carried herself in the halls, in the sharpness of her tongue when she thought teachers were out of earshot, in the arrogance that had led her and her two foolish companions to break the rules so flagrantly. But there was no pride left in her now.

Her sobs filled the office, punctuated by pitiful little gasps as she fought against the unbearable fire seeping into her welted skin. Her hips twitched involuntarily, her fingers clenching and unclenching against the desk as she struggled—futilely—not to writhe under the capsaicin’s relentless burn.

Yes, this would teach her. It would teach all of them.

He glanced at Miss Bradshaw, who stood beside the discipline ledger, her expression unreadable as she calmly noted the details of Eleanor’s punishment. The moment this was recorded, it would become part of school history—a stark reminder of what happened to girls who thought themselves above the rules.

And word would spread.

He had no doubt that, even now, students lingered in the corridor, waiting, whispering. They had heard her cries. By supper, every girl in the dormitories would know what had transpired in this office—that Eleanor Hastings, the proud, untouchable Eleanor, had been bent over the headmaster’s desk, her knickers humiliatingly lowered, and given the thrashing of her life. That she had sobbed like a child. That, even now, she was still squirming, still wriggling, still suffering under the cruel, searing burn of the capsaicin.

And when Lydia Wallace and Caroline Simmons followed, their punishments just as severe, just as humiliating, the lesson would be burned into the school’s collective memory.

No girl would dare flaunt the rules as these three had—not after today. It would be fully nipped in the bud.

Blackwood stepped forward slightly, watching as Eleanor’s thighs clenched, her knees knocking together as she fought against the agony licking at her raw, welted bottom. She was lost in it now—lost in the shame, the helplessness, the unbearable heat that made it impossible for her to stay still, no matter how hard she tried.

He smirked as he observed her struggles. She had no control over her body now, no way to stop the humiliating display she was putting on for him and Miss Bradshaw. With every helpless squirm, her punished cheeks flexed and parted, revealing glimpses of the most shameful, intimate parts of her—a place no girl should ever expose in such a position. And yet, she couldn’t help herself.

He let his gaze linger there, watching as her bottom tensed and trembled, her writhing inadvertently granting him an unimpeded view of her most private areas: her vagina and bottom hole. Every instinct in her must have screamed at her to still herself, to protect what little dignity she had left—but the pain made that impossible. And so she continued to squirm, to clench, to shift, her shame on full display.

Good.

This would teach her. It would teach all of them.

He would not tolerate indiscipline at St. Bartholomew’s. Order had to be maintained, respect upheld. And if the girls required a lesson they would never forget, then so be it.

He let the minutes stretch on, letting the punishment sink in, ensuring Eleanor felt every second of it.

And outside, he knew, the other two were waiting.

Listening.

Knowing that, soon, it would be their turn.

The final minutes stretched on, each one amplifying Eleanor’s disgrace. She no longer fought to preserve what little remained of her dignity; there was none left to save. The fire in her bottom was all-consuming, and the knowledge that she was being watched only worsened the agony. She squirmed like a child, her punished flesh quivering and shifting with each helpless sob, her body betraying her in the most humiliating way possible.

At last, Headmaster Blackwood checked his watch. “The cream has been fully absorbed,” the headmaster announced. “You may now pull up your knickers and fix your uniform.”

Eleanor let out a shuddering breath, reaching back with trembling hands. She hesitated for a moment—dreading the next agony—before slowly, carefully, drawing her knickers up over her burning, welted flesh.

The moment the tight cotton pressed against her bottom, a fresh wave of unbearable heat exploded through her.

A strangled wail escaped her lips, her body jerking upright as she instinctively danced from foot to foot, gripping her thighs in an effort to contain her reaction.

Her fingers shook as she smoothed down her skirt, tears still streaming down her face as she turned, red-eyed and broken, toward the door.

Headmaster Blackwood’s gaze was unreadable, his expression impassive as he regarded her. He was neither cruel nor kind—simply distant, as if her suffering was nothing more than a matter of routine.

Her gaze kept darting to the floor, to the door, anywhere but to the man who had just witnessed every inch of her humiliation. He had seen her bared. He had watched her writhing. He had heard every pathetic cry, every gasping sob, every desperate whimper. And now, she had to stand before him, fully clothed once more, as though any semblance of dignity could be salvaged.

“You will return to the bench and remain seated until all three punishments have been carried out. You will remain there for an additional hour afterward.”

She turned, her face blotchy, tear-streaked, and stumbled toward the door.

The moment she stepped out, all eyes turned to her.

She was a wreck. Her lip quivered uncontrollably, her eyes streaming. Every step was shaky, her body wrung out with pain.

She returned to the bench and lowered herself onto the hard wooden seat—

Only to yelp as her burning bottom met the unyielding surface.

The capsaicin ensured that sitting was pure agony. She wriggled, unable to find a position that eased the fire, her sobs still coming freely.

“Miss Wallace,” came Miss Bradshaw’s voice.

Lydia’s breath hitched in her throat. Her body stiffened, her vision swam, and for one terrible moment, she was certain she would faint.

No. No, please, not me—not yet—

But Miss Bradshaw’s voice had been clear and merciless, her tone leaving no room for argument. Lydia felt Caroline’s hand graze hers for the briefest moment, a silent gesture of sympathy—or perhaps sheer terror. But it was no comfort. Nothing could be.

Her knees wobbled as she tried to rise. Her entire body felt like it was sinking through the floor, but somehow, she forced herself upright. She barely remembered moving forward, barely registered her own feet carrying her toward the door. The world had become nothing but a dull roar in her ears, the silent gazes of those gathered in the corridor pressing in on her like a weight she could not escape.

She stepped inside, the heavy door shutting behind her.

Caroline sat as if turned to stone. Her hands clutched the edge of the bench so tightly that her knuckles were white. Beside her, Eleanor was a wreck. She hadn’t stopped crying since she’d returned to the bench, her whole body trembling as she shifted uncomfortably, trying—and failing—to find even a moment of relief from the agony of sitting.

Caroline could hardly bear to look at her. Eleanor’s face was blotchy and tear-streaked, her lower lip trembling uncontrollably. But it was her eyes—wide, glassy, and filled with absolute devastation—that chilled Caroline to the core.

Then, from behind the closed door, came the first CRACK of the cane landing across Lydia’s bottom.

Lydia wailed.

Caroline jolted. Even through the thick oak door, the sound of the stroke was sharp, like a whip slicing through the air before sinking into flesh. And Lydia’s reaction was instant—a long, high-pitched cry of pure agony.

Another CRACK. Another shriek.

Caroline sucked in a ragged breath, gripping the edge of the bench even harder. She turned her head toward Eleanor, whose own face twisted with fresh distress at the sound.

“It’s on the bare,” Eleanor choked out suddenly, her voice hoarse.

Caroline’s stomach dropped.

“What?” she whispered, her throat tight.

Eleanor gave a shuddering nod, fresh tears slipping down her already tear-streaked cheeks. “Miss Bradshaw—she pulled them down,” she gasped, her breath still uneven. “I—I didn’t think—but she—” Eleanor’s voice broke, and she covered her face with shaking hands.

Lydia’s howl from inside the office was almost inhuman.

Caroline squeezed her eyes shut, but nothing could block out the sounds—the steady, merciless rhythm of the cane meeting bare flesh, the high, broken sobs that followed each stroke.

By the ninth, Lydia was reduced to begging.

By the twelfth, she wasn’t even forming words—just a string of raw, pitiful wails.

And yet—Lydia was still screaming, as had Eleanor.

Caroline blinked, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. It had been at least a minute since the last stroke had fallen, and still, Lydia was wailing behind the closed doors.

The realization hit her like ice down her spine. “Why is she still—?”

Eleanor shuddered beside her. She hesitated, then, in a whisper, confessed:

“They put cream on it.”

Caroline’s stomach flipped. “Cream?”

Eleanor gave a tiny, broken nod. “Capsaicin.” She hiccuped a breath, still visibly shaken. “Miss Bradshaw rubbed it in—into all the welts. It—it burns.” She swallowed hard, her whole body giving a fresh, involuntary tremor. “It’s still burning.”

Caroline felt like she might faint.

Inside the office, Lydia was wailing, her cries high-pitched and desperate, interspersed with pitiful whimpers and frantic gasps.

She was writhing—Caroline could hear it, even without seeing. She could picture it, Lydia twisting helplessly over the desk, unable to stay still as the unbearable burn spread across her welted bottom.

It had been minutes.

And still, she was screaming.

Caroline’s chest heaved with shallow, panicked breaths. Her entire body was shaking now, cold dread settling into her bones.

The door creaked open.

Lydia stumbled out.

She was a mess.

Her face was a blotchy, tear-streaked wreck, her eyes swollen from crying. Her hands trembled violently at her sides, and her entire body jerked with broken, hiccuping sobs. She was still shifting, still wriggling, unable to stand still as the fire in her bottom refused to fade.

She turned toward the bench, her legs wobbling as she tried to sit—

The moment her bottom touched the hard wood, she yelped, shooting back up as if she’d been burned.

Caroline let out a strangled whimper.

Lydia gave her a single, pitiful look—her eyes shining with fresh tears—before collapsing into helpless sobs, shifting from foot to foot, unable to do anything but cry.

Caroline was in tears before her name was even called.

“No—no, please,” she choked, shaking her head wildly, her hands gripping the edge of the bench as if she could hold herself there, keep herself from being dragged inside.

But Miss Bradshaw’s voice was as firm as ever.

“Miss Simmons.”

Caroline sobbed openly as she rose, her legs nearly giving out beneath her.

The moment she crossed the threshold, the door clicking shut behind her, she collapsed into desperate pleas.

“Please, sir—please—I can’t—I can’t—”

Headmaster Blackwood merely looked at her, impassive.

She was going bare.

She was getting the Cream.

And she could not escape it.

By the time she returned, the three of them sat on the bench, weeping openly, unable to stop the tears streaming down their faces. Their hands clenched in their laps, their bodies shifting and writhing in a desperate attempt to ease the unbearable burning.

For an hour, they sat there, crying like chastised schoolgirls, wriggling on the hard bench,, the humiliating spectacle laid bare for the entire school to see.

Students and staff passed by, taking in the sight of three sobbing girls, their legs shifting, their faces red and puffy. Some whispered, some pitied, some smirked.

But the three punished girls could only sit, endure, and cry.

And then, they were there.

The boys.

“Did you hear them in there?” one of the older boys snickered, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. “They were howling.”

“Proper tantrums, too,” another added with a smirk. “Especially Wallace.”

The group chuckled, their eyes gleaming with mischief as they cast smug glances at the bench.

But then—

The question.

The one the girls knew was coming but dreaded all the same.

“Was it on the bare, ladies?”

The words seemed to hang in the air, wicked and taunting.

A ripple of anticipation passed through the group as the boys leaned in slightly, watching. Waiting.

Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut, Lydia inhaled sharply, and Caroline’s nails dug into her palms. None of them spoke.

But their silence was answer enough.

Caroline could feel the heat rising up her neck, spreading across her cheeks, blooming red-hot across her skin. She didn’t dare meet their eyes, but she knew what they saw.

A smirk tugged at the corners of one boy’s lips. “I think we have our answer, lads.”

A few snickers. A low whistle.

“My God,” one of them murmured, shaking his head in mock sympathy. “Right down to their ankles, then?”

Caroline flinched.

Another boy let out a low chuckle. “No wonder they screamed so much. Must’ve been mortifying.”

Lydia’s whole body stiffened.

“Wouldn’t have wanted to be the last one in,” another boy said in a mockingly pitying tone. “Had to sit there knowing exactly what was coming. Knowing you were gonna be bent over, knickers down, waiting to get it on your poor, bare—”

“Shut up,” Eleanor hissed, her voice trembling.

“Oh-ho, someone’s still got a little spirit left,” one of the older boys teased. “You sure that wasn’t caned out of you?”

Another chuckle. “I dunno, she looks pretty broken to me. I’d say headmaster did a thorough job.”

Lydia let out the softest, most pitiful whimper as she shifted slightly—too slightly. The movement drew attention.

“She’s still wriggling,” one of the boys murmured in amusement.

“Still burning, I bet,” another whispered, his smirk widening.

“Oh, I’d say they got the extra treatment,” a Sixth Form boy murmured knowingly. “Capsaicin, isn’t it? Rubbed all over.”

Caroline’s breath caught in her throat.

Another chuckle. “Still stinging, girls?”

“Still tingling?” someone else whispered, and the laughter that followed had a low, suggestive edge to it.

Caroline’s entire body tensed. She stared straight ahead, hands clasped tightly in her lap, willing herself not to react, not to give them the satisfaction—

But Eleanor did.

Just the tiniest shift. The smallest, involuntary clench of her thighs.

It was enough.

“Ohhh,” one of the boys let out a slow, knowing murmur. “Still feeling it there, are you?”

The heat in Eleanor’s face was almost unbearable.

More laughter. A few exchanged glances.

“I wonder if headmaster rubbed it in everywhere,” one of the older boys whispered, his voice low and suggestive.

Caroline let out a tiny, strangled sound of pure mortification.

The boys grinned.

“I’d say they’ll be feeling that for a while,” one of them murmured.

“And remembering it even longer,” another added.

The corridor buzzed with barely contained amusement as the boys continued their quiet, smug whispers, sending lingering, teasing glances at the three utterly humiliated, thoroughly punished girls.

They had never felt so small.

So exposed.

And the worst part?

The boys were right.

They would be feeling it for a long time.

And they would never forget it.