I composed this tale for Halloween, inspired by Lori's tales of 
spanked teachers, TipTopper's wonderful "Cat's Curiosity," and 
Goodgulf's tales of semi-voluntary punishments.  -- Joe







          TRACY'S HALLOWEEN WITH THE HEADMASTER

                           by

                         Joe Doe



  DEPUTY HEADMISTRESS TRACY DECIDES TO DRESS AS A SCHOOLGIRL FOR 
  HALLOWEEN AND IS SENT TO THE HEADMASTER'S OFFICE....



Part 1

When she looked at herself in the mirror, Tracy Smith was 
astonished.

Although 29, Tracy's youthful appearance still caused her to be 
carded at bars.  To compensate, she usually dressed to appear 
older -- hair in a bun, conservative suits, and glasses that 
were more of a prop than a necessity.

Appearances were of vital importance to Tracy.  Desperately 
ambitious, she always dressed for success and politicked 
relentlessly to advance her career.  Her endless badgering had 
finally convinced the school's Board of Governors to create the 
post of Deputy Headmistress, a decision that caused considerable 
consternation among the dozens of more experienced teachers that 
she had leapfrogged past.

No matter.  She was now heir apparent, and, as soon as she pushed 
Headmaster Chambers into retirement, the school would be hers.

Not that Tracy's professional career was perfect.  She knew the 
other teachers resented her youth and ambition.  She was an 
excellent teacher and well-respected by her students, but hardly 
popular.  She knew she was regarded as a prig and a know-it-all.  
She thought the characterization quite unjust, as it was hardly 
her fault that she was smarter than everyone else.

In Tracy's scheme, the post of Deputy Headmistress would catapult 
her to the top, but old man Chambers would have none of it, and 
he continued to treat Tracy like the greenest of rookies.  She 
despised the way that he patronized her, always managing to work in 
a "young lady" or a "my dear" into one of his windy corrections of 
her performance.  Nonetheless, each time he scolded her, it gave 
her a deliciously naughty tingle, for, as headmaster, Chambers 
held in his hands the greatest power in the school, the power of 
the rod.

Perhaps because she had never experienced it, Tracy was fascinated 
by corporal punishment.  She had argued that the board should make 
her Deputy Headmistress so that she could cane the girls, but, 
although she got the title, Headmaster Chambers persisted in 
keeping the corporal punishment duties entirely to himself.  This 
was no small annoyance for Tracy, for she had a deep and prurient 
interest in all matters related to corporal punishment and, indeed, 
was desperate at least to see the cane in the headmaster's cupboard.

On numerous occasions, Tracy had suggested that, since she had 
never been caned herself, she should at least be allowed to watch 
a caning or two, so that she might understand what the students 
she sent to the headmaster would have to endure.  But Chambers's 
response had left Tracy too flustered to even form a reply.  "My 
dear," he said with a tight smile.  "The reason you never 
experienced the cane was because you were never my student.  
If you had been, you would have soon found yourself in my study, 
with your skirt raised and your knickers round your knees."

Tracy had been horrified by the perversity of the remark and the 
leering look on his face when he referred to her knickers round 
her knees.  Nonetheless, she found the threat tremendously 
exciting, and that night she nearly wore out her vibrator's 
batteries.

A few days later, she was once again in the headmaster's office, 
this time for appearing before a parents' group and flatly stating 
that "a change in leadership, starting at the headmaster's Office, 
is needed to effect any meaningful change."  When Chambers once 
again chided his deputy for trying to force him out, her answer 
was ready.

"What are you going to do?  Spank me?" she teased, in her sauciest 
tone.

Tracy had thought her smart answer would leave him speechless, 
since his remark about her knickers round her knees had done as 
much to her.  But the headmaster, entirely unfazed, blithely 
replied, "I doubt a single spanking would be sufficient to correct 
your cheekiness.  It would take a full semester, in class, in 
uniform, and in this office, with your bare bottom wiggling 
underneath my cane."

Tracy felt herself flush, but once again was unable to speak.  
Frustrated that he had once again gotten the better of her, 
she ended the meeting.

That night, Tracy was haunted by the image of herself in class, 
a real school uniform.  If only!  Alas, at 29, those days were 
behind her, but she could still fantasize...and pleasure herself 
as she did so.

She knew she had a cute bottom, and she had often been told that 
it was her best feature.  When they were at faculty events, she 
frequently caught headmaster staring at her bottom whenever she 
bent over or reached for something.  

And she knew precisely what was on his mind.

		******************************

A month later Tracy had discreetly purchased a school uniform for 
herself from the school's supplier, not daring to go through the 
school.  She could have gone to a costume shop, of course, but that 
would never do.  She wanted authenticity, from the red sweater, 
gray skirt, rep tie, ankle socks, maryjanes, and...white cotton 
uniform knickers.

The outfit arrived on Saturday, which was perfect timing.  Monday 
morning was Halloween.  Yes, Halloween, the day when the faculty 
were allowed to show what good sports they were by dressing up as 
clowns, space aliens, or (most frequently) their favorite teacher 
from the Harry Potter books.

Tracy -- stuffy, arrogant, and repressed -- had never dressed up 
in the past, having regarded the whole business of Halloween as 
unproductive silliness.  But now she saw Halloween as her chance 
to cut lose and make her deepest fantasies come alive.  Halloween 
would allow her to walk the halls as a schoolgirl.

She had read numerous articles from the educational establishment 
suggesting that teachers must seem accessible to their pupils in 
order to relate to them.  She had regarded such demagogy as utter 
nonsense, of course.  But citing the numerous journal articles 
would give her something erudite to say if anyone inquired about 
why she had decided to dress as one of the students.

When she looked at herself in the mirror, she was astonished.  In 
her bid for authenticity, Tracy had sent the company her actual 
measurements, and it had responded by sending her a humiliating 
underwear vest which, together with the white shirt and red 
sweater, made her A-cups disappear.  The headmaster's sexist pig 
regulations stipulated that the gray uniform skirt should end at 
mid-thigh -- which left quite a lot of her legs embarrassingly 
exposed.

As she stared in amazement at her own reflection, she realized 
that it wasn't simply the lack of makeup and her school uniform 
that made her appear younger.  The schoolgirl in the mirror seemed 
genuinely shy, awkward, and diffident, quite the opposite of the 
brash and ambitious teacher who commanded the respect of others 
through the sheer force of her will.

Tracy felt sick as she imagined Mr. Chambers ogling her in her 
school uniform.  She knew that he enjoyed treating her as if she 
were a recalcitrant pupil and would be delighted to see her 
reduced to the status of a mere  student.  For, if she WERE his 
student, she would soon find herself in his office with her 
knickers round her knees.

Was such a thing possible?  Recovering herself, Tracy dismissed 
the idea as utter rubbish.  No matter what she was wearing, she 
was still Deputy Headmistress, educated, politically astute, and 
very much in control.

In a way, the uniform was a feminist statement, she reasoned.  She 
would dress precisely as Mr. Chambers most wanted to see her and 
still come out on top.  Yes, that would show the old goat.  Let 
the senile old lecher eat his heart out, look but not touch, and 
fantasize about what he would never have.

Tracy's Halloween holiday as a schoolgirl would be a fantasy come 
true, but also proof to the Board of Governors that she had a sense 
of humor and was very much ready to assume the top job.  Yes, she 
looked like a teenager again, but that was the point, wasn't it?  
She had to relate, didn't she?  Before she left for school that 
Halloween morning, Tracy pushed the look to the edge by arranging 
her hair into two carefully braided pigtails.

		******************************

Unfortunately, Tracy's first class was a disaster.  What she had 
failed to realize was that the change in her appearance -- and the 
accompanying change in her manner -- made it quite impossible for 
her to teach.  When she sat on the desk several of the boys let out 
loud and piercing wolf whistles.  When she turned to write on the 
blackboard, she was showered by spit wads and paper airplanes.  
When she told the students to open their books, they simply 
laughed.

She tried to maintain order.  First she sent the four whistlers to 
the headmaster's office, followed by three of the more boisterous 
hecklers, and finally Penelope Pearce, one the snottiest of her 
students (for cheekily asking if Tracy were "wearing regulation 
knickers."

Tracy was surprised when, at twenty minutes before the hour, the 
eight expelled students returned to her class, all smiles, 
accompanied by Mr. Richards, an old fogey of a math teacher that 
Tracy had never liked.  "Headmaster informed me that I am to 
take over the remainder of your class," he said, in a voice that 
brooked no contradiction. "He also asked me to give you this."

Tracy's eyes turned into saucers as Richards handed her a hall pass.


The pass itself was unremarkable.  It had the date, a time range 
during which it was valid, a check-box indicating where the student 
was to report (in this case, the headmaster's office), and the 
head's signature.  Tracy was startled, however, to see that her 
name was written on the STUDENT NAME line, and that the color of 
the pass was yellow.

The hall passes that Tracy had given the students she had sent to 
the headmaster's office were commonplace white.  Yellow passes 
were issued only by the headmaster himself and the most senior 
faculty, and they were usually used only when a student was in 
serious trouble.

As Tracy reluctantly accepted the much-feared yellow pass, the 
other students barraged her with a sarcastic serenade of "ooooh!"

"A yellow pass!  Looks like somebody's in a jam!"

"He doesn't use yellow passes for anything less than the strap!"

Tracy ignored the students and spoke only to Mr. Richards.  "I 
don't understand.  Why would I need a hall pass?"

"Mr. Chambers felt that, dressed as you are, it might be easier 
for you to move freely through the halls with a signed pass.  
Now, run along, Tracy, spit-spat, before your time expires."

Tracy looked at the time on the pass.  She wanted to argue that the 
pass wasn't necessary.  She wanted to ask if she might go to her 
car and retrieve her adult clothes.  She wanted to ask why the pass 
was yellow.

She looked nervously up at the clock on the wall.  Tick-tock!

Tracy ignored the tittering of her fellow classmates as she 
scurried out of the room and made haste to the headmaster's office.

Miss Spice, the dried-up old prune of a spinster who served as the 
head's secretary, greeted Tracy with the hostile, beady-eyed glare 
she gave every student who came to the office.  Tracy, however, 
could tell from the tight smile on her face that she was pleased 
to see the arrogant teacher in a school uniform, in which she 
might be dealt with in the proper way.

The headmaster was busy, or so Tracy was told.  Because of her 
uniform and incriminating pass, she was not allowed to wait on 
the comfortable leather couch, but was instead relegated to 
the hard wooden bench outside the headmaster's office.

The bench, bolted and chained to the wall, was more suited to 
Alcatraz than a school.  It was hard and uncomfortable, and, 
because of its special status as the place where naughty students 
awaited their punishments, it had been humorously nicknamed 
"Death Row."

Tracy squirmed on the hard bench as she waited to speak with the 
headmaster.  It was no easy penance, for, when the bell rang, the 
hallway was flooded with students, all of whom saw her in uniform 
and on the bench, with the incriminating yellow pass in her hand.  
Tracy stared straight ahead, trying desperately to ignore their 
impudent chatter.

"Is that Miss Smith?  Why is she dressed like that?"

"Didn't you hear, dummy?  It's Halloween!"

"Is that a yellow pass she's holding?"

"Sure is!  One of the senile old geezers around here probably 
thought she was a student and sent her down here for a hiding."

"Do you think she'll really get it?  I mean...a REAL swishing?"

"You bet she will.  Old Chambers won't miss an opportunity like 
this."

"A yellow pass!  Ouch!  She's going to get it good."

"That can't be Miss Smith!"

"Sure is.  Cute legs!"

"Cute everything.  I'd love to be a fly on the wall when Chambers 
lifts HER skirts."

Tracy blushed crimson as their laughter burned in her ears.

"What's Miss Smith doing dressed like that, waiting on Death Row?"

"I don't know, but I hope she gets it good.  She sure was eager 
enough to dish it out."

Tracy felt ashamed as she remembered all of the times she had 
taunted students waiting on the bench with a sly comment or 
a satisfied smile.  It had seemed just to her, part of their 
punishment, but, now that she was on receiving end, it seemed 
very cruel indeed.

She was relieved when the halls emptied and Miss Spice beckoned 
her to come into the headmaster's inner office.  The timing 
seemed strangely coincidental, and Tracy found herself wondering 
if Mr. Chambers had deliberately pilloried her on Death Row in 
front of the other students just to embarrass her.

She had been in the headmaster's office countless times before, 
but now, dressed in a school uniform and with the dreaded yellow 
pass in her hand, the wooden paneling, antique furniture, and 
hardwood floor seemed strangely foreboding.

She headed for the couch, but the headmaster, not bothering to look 
up from his paperwork, cut her off.  "You will stand in front of my 
desk, Smith, until I'm ready for you."

Tracy recognized the voice as the one he used when addressing 
naughty students.  Well, she was not a naughty student and had 
every intention of explaining that when the opportunity arose.  
In truth, her wait in the hallway and the comments from the other 
students had rattled her, and she was grateful for a moment to 
gather her thoughts.

Mr. Chambers at last finished his paperwork.  Rising, he walked 
around the desk to inspect her uniform.  He did nearly a full 
circle around her, pausing to admire her legs and shapely bottom.  
Tracy, punishment pass in hand, squirmed helplessly under his 
appraising gaze.

"Straighten your socks!" he barked.  She felt him ogling her 
bottom as she bent to obey his command.

"Your tie should be tighter.  A girl's uniform should always 
worn with pride."

Tracy adjusted her tie in the manner he preferred, even though it 
did significantly decrease the oxygen to her brain.

He took her pass and read it carefully.  Sitting down at his desk, 
he leaned back in his chair for several moments, obviously 
relishing his position of power. 

At last, he spoke.  "This is a marvelously intriguing situation, 
is it not?" he asked, smiling.

"How so?" Tracy asked.

"Do you recall telling Mrs. Jackson at the Christmas party that you 
wished you could go back in time and be a schoolgirl again, so that 
you could find out what a genuine schoolgirl punishment was like?"

She stared at him, mouth agape.  His face hardened.  "Well, you're 
not here to catch flies, girl.  Did you or did you not say that?"

"I may have," Tracy allowed.  "I was drinking and...."

"Did you tell Mr. Darby of the Board of Governors that I was too 
old and senile for my job?"

"Well, I don't recall using precisely those words...."

"Did you tell Mrs. Tool that I was a dirty old man who liked to 
cane girls' bottoms...and that the Board should fire me and 
replace me with you?"

"Well, I'm friendly with a lot of the governors.  You can't 
possibly expect me to remember every conversation...."

"If you had to choose a single word to describe your behavior, 
what would that word be?"

She dissembled.  "I don't know if there's ONE word that...."

"Could you please read what you wrote on the back of Penelope 
Pearce's hall pass?" he said, handing Tracy the form.

Tracy, still quite nonplussed as to where all this was going, read 
the note aloud.  "Penelope was grossly disrespectful today and 
repeatedly attempted to undermine my authority.  I suggest 
six-of-the-best with Yellow Rod on her bare bottom, with two or 
three extra on the backs of her thighs where her fellow classmates 
might see them.  This should serve as an excellent deterrent to 
further insubordination."

"Hmmm...," he said, taking the note from her slightly tremulous 
hand.  "'Grossly disrespectful...repeatedly undermining my 
authority.'  Do you think that your relentless campaign to steal 
my job -- and your repeated and tiresome accusations that I'm fat, 
stupid, and incompetent -- might properly be described as 
'insubordination'?"

"Yes, perhaps," she admitted.  "But I don't see what that has to 
do with...."

She stopped short as he went to his cabinet, opened it, and removed 
an instrument that, to this moment, Tracy had heard about but never 
seen.  The cane was a bit over two feet long, thin, and murderously 
flexible.  Its anthropomorphic nickname, "Yellow Rod," derived from 
its cheerful yellow color and the tendency of both the students and 
staff to refer to it as a person rather than as a thing.

("I think Yellow Rod will have a thing or two to say about that!" 
was a common enough saying...as was "She'll lose some of her 
ginger after she's had a talk with Yellow Rod."  And "You're in 
luck, missy, because Yellow Rod is also giving music lessons 
today.  Take this pass to the headmaster's office, and Yellow Rod 
will help you hit the high notes.")

Until this moment, Tracy had always found the references to Yellow 
Rod's personality to be an amusing eccentricity, and she thought 
of it as something of a school mascot.  But, as she watched the 
headmaster flex the wicked cane into a half circle, it truly seemed 
to her to be a living, breathing entity.

"This is the instrument you suggested would cure insubordination, 
is it not?" the headmaster asked.

"Yes, it is, but you have no legal right...."

Her objection was cut short as the headmaster sliced Yellow Rod 
through the air, creating a horrible whoosh sound that caused 
poor Tracy to reach back and cup her bottom cheeks in panic.

"I have every legal right, young lady.  Have you forgotten that 
you signed the consent form?"

Tracy flashed back to that day several months earlier when she 
had been in the outer office talking to that nasty old spinster 
secretary, Miss Spice,  about her favorite subject: corporal 
punishment.  Tracy, who had been called to the office to discuss 
her petition before the Board to lower the mandatory retirement 
age for headmasters to 55, had been waiting to see Mr. Chambers 
when she noticed a CORPORAL PUNISHMENT AUTHORIZATION FORM sitting 
on Miss Spice's desk.

"Is this the actual form?" Tracy said, eyes widening as she spied 
the document.  "It doesn't seem very long."

"Oh, it's not," Miss Spice said.  "And it's very easy to fill out.  
Here, let me show you."

Miss Spice, who ordinarily was not very playful at all, whistled 
cheerfully as she demonstrated how rapidly she could complete the 
form.  Tracy's heart had fluttered as she watched the old crone 
write in TRACY SMITH on the student line and then cheerfully check 
off a series of boxes:

Hand – Check!
Tawse – Check!
Cane – Check!
 
On Knickers – Check!
On Bare – Check!

Miss Spice turned the form around and handed Tracy the pen.  "Go 
ahead, sign it.  Then it will be official."

Tracy did not sign it.  She stared at the tiny form in stunned 
disbelief.  Could this insignificant slip of paper actually make 
her fantasies come true, and give Headmaster Chambers the authority 
to cane her?

"Go ahead, sign it," Miss Spice said, literally pressing the pen 
into Tracy's hand.  "I'll give you the pink copy on the bottom. 
It will be great fun and a wonderful souvenir of your time at our 
school."

Nothing about Miss Spice was "fun," but the form itself was 
mesmerizing.  Tracy knew she had to have it...to take it home 
for further study.  There would be no harm in it; she would 
take the form with her, and it would be hers -- hers alone.

Tracy, her hand trembling, signed and dated the form authorizing 
her punishment.

As luck would have it Mr. Chambers had exited his office at 
precisely the instant Tracy finished signing the form.  As 
she turned to look up at him, Miss Spice yanked the form out 
from underneath Tracy's hand and rolled her chair over to place 
it in the outbox on the far side of her credenza.  "I'll mail 
you your copy after I get the headmaster's signature and file 
it properly," Miss Spice explained.

"Am I interrupting something?" Mr. Chambers asked.

Tracy said nothing.  She didn't want to leave the form with Miss 
Spice, but she REALLY didn't want to tell the headmaster what she 
had just done.  He already treated her like a schoolgirl, and the 
last thing she needed was the Board seeing her signed CORPORAL 
PUNISHMENT AUTHORIZATION form.

She followed the headmaster into his office, where, with badly 
feigned sincerity, she explained that the mandatory retirement 
policy she was proposing was not aimed specifically at him, 
but at headmasters in general.  She babbled on and on, and, 
by the time the lengthy meeting was over, Miss Spice had gone 
to lunch.  Unfortunately, (as nearly as Tracy could tell from 
searching her desk) the form had mysteriously gone with her.

She was unable to see to Miss Spice in the next few days.  First, 
there was a long holiday weekend, and then Miss Spice took the 
following two days off.  The next time Tracy saw the form was when 
she received the pink copy in the mail.  It was the form she had 
signed in the office that day, but it was different in one crucial, 
horrifying respect: Mr. Chambers had signed and dated the bottom. 

Tracy was bewildered, for she expected Mr. Chambers to bring the 
wretched document to the Board as written proof that she was 
basically still a silly schoolgirl, unworthy of being headmistress. 
But, to her surprise, the incident was never mentioned again.  She 
tried to tell herself that the headmaster had signed the form 
without even bothering to read it, but she knew in her heart that 
corporal punishment was his passion and he'd never casually pass 
over a form without noticing a girl's name on it.

Why then, hadn't he mentioned it?  She was baffled.

But she certainly had no motive for bringing it to anyone's 
attention, and she was quite happy to pretend that the whole 
dreadful affair had never occurred.  All that was left of the 
matter were a few forms in a file and, of course, the pink copy, 
which she read and re-read repeatedly as she pleasured herself 
late into the night.

But now, standing before the headmaster's desk in her new school 
uniform, she has reminded of the form that legally authorized the 
headmaster to cane her.

"But I'm not a student!" she pleaded, in voice that made her sound 
far more like a whiny teenager than she intended.

"Aren't you?  How does one become a student?  It is not a matter 
of paperwork.  One becomes a student by assuming the role of a 
student, by donning our uniform, and attending classes, and by 
obeying our rules. Did you meet anyone in the hallway today?"  

"Yes, I did," Tracy said, fidgeting slightly at the memory.

"Who?"

"The hall monitor, Jeffrey Stoolie." 

"I see.  Did Mr. Stoolie ask you for your pass?"

She flushed slightly at the memory.  Jeffrey Stoolie, 18, was the 
perfect choice for a student monitor in that he was a sneaky little 
apple polisher who delighted in the misfortune of others.  Tracy 
had had him in a class and had given him a "C," more for his 
attitude than for his academics.

When Jeffrey had seen Tracy in her uniform, he didn't recognize 
her at first.  Then, when he did, his face had registered absolute 
confusion.  But, when he'd spotted the yellow pass in her trembling 
hand, he had burst into a broad, unlovely smile.  "What's this 
then, Miss Smith?" he asked.

"Uh, it's my Halloween costume," she answered lamely.  "I'm on my 
way to see the headmaster."

"With a yellow pass?" Jeffrey asked.

"Y-yes...."

"Well, hand it over, then, missy.  I am hall monitor, you know."

Tracy handed the grinning student her pass.  And Jeffrey, relishing 
his authority, examined it closely as she shuffled her feet in 
front of his tiny desk.  "Hmmm...a yellow pass....  Did you do 
something wrong?"

"Uh...n-no," Tracy stammered.  "I-I mean, well, I don't think so. 
They must have been out of regular white passes."

"I don't think Miss Spice ever runs out," Jeffrey countered.  
"Yellow passes usually mean the strap...or sometimes the cane," 
he added gleefully.  "I'd hurry along if I were you.  Yellow 
Rod doesn't like it when students keep him waiting."

Jeffrey had handed Tracy her pass back, and she'd scurried down the 
hall, trying to ignore the feeling of the boy's eyes burning into 
the back of her short uniform skirt.

"I see, the headmaster said, shocking Tracy back into the moment. 
"Did Mr. Stoolie ask you to present your hall pass?"

"Yes," Tracy said.

"And you gave it to him?"

She nodded.

"And after examining your pass, he sent you on your way, the same 
as he would any other student?" 

"Yes, I suppose," Tracy said, unsure as to the point.

"Would you agree that, at that moment at least, for purposes of 
that exchange, you assumed the role of a student?"

"Well, yes, but...."

"Would you agree that once you become a student, you are a student, 
and that a student can't declare she is not a student simply to 
avoid punishment?"

"Yes, of course," Tracy said.  "But let's be reasonable...."

"Quite.  You teach history, philosophy, and logic, do you not, Miss 
Smith?  Very well, let us confine ourselves to a summation of the 
relevant facts, which I will summarize now.  At the conclusion of 
my summary, I wish you to give me a simple 'yes' or 'no' answer, 
without commentary, as to whether or not I have stated the facts 
correctly, so we can logically determine whether I should cane you. 
Do you agree?"

Tracy, ever confident in her abilities, agreed to his terms.

"You have come to school dressed in a school uniform and have 
admitted to me that you have voluntarily assumed the role of a 
student.  In doing so, you have clearly rendered yourself unable 
to fulfill your teaching duties.  You have signed a corporal 
punishment form authorizing me to punish you as if you were 
a student, legally binding you to accept whatever punishment I 
deem proper.  The form has been approved, and it is now on file.

"You agree that once one becomes a student, one cannot claim not 
to be a student simply to avoid punishment.  You have confessed 
to your insubordination and have given me a written statement 
suggesting that the best way to deal with said offense is 
six-of-the-best with Yellow Rod, with a few extras clearly visible 
across the back of your thighs so that others can benefit from your 
example.  Have I stated the facts correctly?"

Tracy was aghast.  She considered herself his intellectual superior 
and had readily agreed to his terms because of her confidence that 
the facts were on her side.  But the headmaster, long schooled in 
such exchanges, had skillfully created a rhetorical trap from which 
there was no escape.

She could not disagree with his facts, since they were entirely 
correct.  But, if she said "yes," she would be agreeing to an 
old-fashioned schoolgirl caning.

The silence was deafening, and the headmaster, relishing his 
triumph, beamed at her like the Cheshire Cat.  She was 
astonished by his cleverness, but her awe of his mastery 
over her did nothing to resolve her dilemma.

After examining the conundrum from every conceivable angle, she  
spoke at last.  "Yes, sir," she said quietly, conceding defeat 
(and feeling very much like the schoolgirl she now was).

"Very well.  Please hold out your hands, palms up."

Tracy was acutely aware of the fact Yellow Rod was in his right 
hand, ready to strike.  She very much did not want to place her 
tender palms in such a vulnerable position, but what choice did 
she have?

Clenching her teeth, she obeyed.

To her surprise, the headmaster did not strike her.  Instead, he 
placed the cane in her hands, balancing it so that it was resting 
on the centers of her palms.

She remained motionless as he picked up his leather binder and 
prepared to leave.  "Since you rendered yourself unfit to attend 
your classes today, at least as a teacher, I will need to arrange 
for an appropriate substitute.  I will also work out your class 
schedule for the remainder of the day.  I wish you to spend my 
absence contemplating your transgressions, your place in our 
school, Yellow Rod, and the authority he now has over you.  
Yellow Rod will deal with your insubordination when I return."

The door slammed shut, leaving Tracy, with her heart racing and 
her outstretched arms trembling, staring at the instrument of 
her correction.

		******************************


Part 2

Tracy had no idea how long she had been waiting, but it seemed to 
her to have been a very long time indeed.

There was a handsome grandfather clock in the corner of the study, 
but unfortunately her line of sight was blocked by the edge of a 
bookcase. 

She could simply have walked over to look at the clock, of course, 
but she didn't dare move.  The headmaster had left her standing in 
front of his desk, arms straight in front of her, with the cane 
resting on her open palms.

Her arms were sore and her legs wobbly.  Her mind was full of 
thoughts of what was in store.  Worse, she also felt a deliciously 
naughty tingle between her legs that she was desperate to scratch.  

But she didn't dare move.

She could see her reflection in the office window.  The trembling 
schoolgirl in the striped tie, red sweater, and tiny gray skirt 
bore no resemblance to Tracy Smith, deputy headmistress.  On her 
previous visits to the headmaster's office, she had worn smart, 
tailored clothing that had made her feel in charge and in control.  
At the moment, however, the reflection in the window was that of a 
nervous teenager biting her lip as she awaited her date with fate.

One of the gardeners trudged past as he was mowing the lawn, and he 
spotted Tracy standing in the window.  Her heart skipped a beat 
when he saw her, for she felt sure that he would remember her; she 
had complained to him a few weeks before about the "disgraceful" 
condition of the flowerbed outside her office window.  But the 
smile on the man's face was not one of surprise or recognition.  
He paused and looked Tracy up and down, letting his eyes linger on 
her legs and on her outstretched hands holding the cane.  Then he 
gave her a playful wink and went about his business.

Tracy was horrified.  "He didn't even recognize me!  He thinks I'm 
a student!  He thinks I'm simply another naughty teenager waiting 
for the cane!"

The thought chilled her to the bone.  Was her transformation really 
that complete?  She was not a teenager, of course, but did that 
matter now?

When she had donned this damned uniform for Halloween, she had 
never dreamed that her harmless lark might strip her of her adult 
status and trap her in the persona of a naughty schoolgirl.  But 
trapped she was, with no way out.

She could make a run for it, of course, but even if she got past 
Miss Spice and the hall monitors, where would she go?  Her car 
keys were in her purse, which was locked in her combination locker 
in the teacher's lounge.  If she made it to her locker she would 
scarcely have time to retrieve what she needed, not with Miss Spice 
and the hall monitors in hot pursuit.

Alternatively, she could simply bolt for the door, but she knew she 
wouldn't get far dressed as she was.  The people in the surrounding 
village had no patience for truants, and, without any money or 
identification, she would most likely find herself over someone's 
knee even before she was returned to the headmaster for a proper 
caning.

But, even if she could somehow escape, would she really want to?  
She had fantasized about school punishments for years, but she 
was always the consummate "good girl," and her dreams had been 
unrealized.  Now she was dressed in an authentic school uniform 
and was waiting for a genuine caning from the headmaster himself. 
No, this was too perfect a chance.

Not that it mattered; even if she wanted to escape, she couldn't.  
And yet somehow the fact that she was trapped made it all the more 
exciting.  She squeezed her thighs together as she devoured the 
moment...the ache in her arms, the feel of the rod in her hands, 
and the tingling between her legs.

Tracy wondered what the headmaster was doing right now.  Of course, 
he had to arrange for a substitute to take over her classes, but 
he'd also said that he needed to work out her schedule for the 
rest of the day.  If she wasn't teaching, why would she need a 
class schedule?

Tracy didn't understand, but she knew she didn't need to.  She was 
under Mr. Chambers's control, and she would have to accept whatever 
fate he had in store for her.  And, at this moment, fate was shaped 
like a long, slender school cane nicknamed "Yellow Rod" by the 
generations of students who had felt its cruel kiss.

She stared at the stick, mesmerized by its slender lines, smooth 
surface, and the power it seemed to have over her.  As the cane 
quivered impatiently in her trembling hands, it seemed to her to 
be almost a living thing, and, as her trance deepened, she could 
almost feel it speaking to her, like the serpent speaking to Eve 
in the Garden.

"You've wanted to meet me for a long time, haven't you, Tracy?  
Well, you're about to get an unforgettable 'How-do-you-do.'  
I'm going to enjoy getting to know you and finding all the curves 
and sensitive spots on that tight little arse of yours.  I'm going 
to enjoy making you cry, and kick, and squeal like the naughty 
little piggy you are.

"This little piggy went to market, this little piggy went home, 
and this little piggy had her knickers taken down for a nice 
striping from Yellow Rod!

"That's right, Tracy, you're going to be whipped on your bare bum, 
just like the naughty little girl you are.  Those boys in the 
hallway were right; Mr. Chambers isn't going to miss his chance 
to watch your bottom cheeks squirm and wiggle as I teach them to 
dance.  And, after that, it will be the corner for you, bare 
bottom, with goodness-knows-who watching.  You can forget about 
modesty now, Tracy.  Modesty is for good girls, not for 
insubordinate little chits like you.

"Oh, what's wrong, Tracy?  Are you going to cry?  Stop sniveling, 
before I give you something to cry about.  How dare you call our 
beloved headmaster stupid and lazy?  I'm going to make you regret 
the day you ever came to this school.

"Did you see the other students in the hallway smiling at you, 
Tracy, when they saw you sitting on Death Row with the yellow 
pass in your hand?  Did you enjoy them smirking at you?  Well, 
get used to it, young lady, because you'll be getting a lot more 
teasing after I lay on your stripes.  Yes, I'll do a good job on 
you and make your legs and bottom into a beautiful watercolor, 
filled with lovely streaks of scarlet red and pulsing purple.

"You wanted it, Tracy, and now you're going to get it," the serpent 
taunted, reveling his torment of Eve.  "Right on the bare, with 
that old lecher of a headmaster ogling your bottom.  Keep your 
legs together, Tracy, unless you want to put on a show."


How long this taunting went on she could not say, but, by the time 
the headmaster returned, she was a nervous wreck.  Her hands were 
visibly shaking, both from the strain of holding her arms in front 
of her and from the sheer terror that the cane in her hands had 
inspired.  Trickles of sweat rolled down her face, she was 
struggling to breathe, her legs wobbled like jelly, and the 
passion between her legs burned like a fire.

Chambers smiled as he surveyed her agitated, anxious state.  Once 
again he took a slow walk around her and relished the sight of his 
arrogant deputy headmistress dressed up as a schoolgirl, with her 
legs bare, her tie tightly knotted, and her white socks pulled up 
smartly.

He smiled as he noted the beads of sweat on her forehead.  Yes, 
asking the gardener to mow outside the office had been a 
masterstroke.  Tracy's self-confidence and bravado had been 
destroyed; now he was going to strip her of her dignity as well.

He could have made the necessary arrangements before summoning her 
to his office, for he had conceived this scheme to place her under 
his thumb the moment he had heard that his foolish deputy had 
decided to wear a school uniform for Halloween and had proceeded 
to lose control of her class.  But he had wanted to see Tracy in 
her uniform as soon as possible, and he was too anxious to pull 
the lever and send her tumbling to her doom to brook any delay.

Moreover, he didn't want to take the chance that the clever teacher 
might actually regain control of her class and thus save herself 
from the fate he had planned for her.  No, no, escape would never 
do.

The headmaster's eagerness to see her humbled meant that she had 
spent nearly a full hour standing in front of his desk staring at 
the cane.  But this pleased him, too, for he knew the wait was a 
torment, and he wanted her to sweat it out.

But even the best of things must come to an end, and, after making 
a proper survey of her uniform, the headmaster at last took the 
cane out of her trembling hands.

"An amusing little toy, is it not?" he asked rhetorically, causing 
her to flinch as he SWOOSHED it through the air.  "Capital that we 
finally have a chance to fulfill your longstanding wish to see it 
in practice."

"You may put your arms down now, Tracy.  Take the mission chair to 
the left of the fireplace and place it in the center of the room."  

She was glad that she was finally able to drop her hands, but her 
relief was tempered by her knowledge that in moving the chair into 
place she was in effect constructing her own gallows.

The chair was old, darkly varnished, and heavy; her tired arms 
strained as she lugged it across the room.  The chair was strong 
and sturdy, as it had to be, for it had served as the platform of 
execution for countless bullies, cheats, and miscreants.  And today 
it would be used to "correct" an insubordinate little chit named 
Tracy Smith.

Her task complete, Tracy turned back to the headmaster to await his 
next command. "There is a jar of safety-pins on the credenza," he 
said, pointing.  "Please select four and bring them to me."

She was confused as to the purpose of the pins, but dutifully 
complied.  Her curiosity was swiftly satisfied as Chambers 
casually hoisted the front corners of her uniform skirt high 
above her white knickers and carefully pinned them to the front 
of her blouse.

Tracy was outraged by this treatment, and it took her a moment to 
remember that she was no longer deputy headmistress, but rather a 
naughty girl summoned to the headmaster's office for discipline.  
In this context, the headmaster's disgraceful assault on her 
dignity was simply a matter of following proper procedure.

Almost.  In most cases, the headmaster pinned up the girl's skirt 
only in back.  Tracy was a special case, however, for he and 
several other members of the Board of Governors had once had an 
intense debate over whether or not Miss Smith was a natural blonde. 
It was a dispute he hoped to settle presently.

He ordered Tracy to turn, and, like an expert tailor, pinned up her 
skirt in back as well.  This left her tight white regulation issue 
knickers entirely exposed to the his gaze, and, from the smile on 
his face, it was clear that he liked what he saw.

For her part, Tracy was concentrating fully on keeping her legs 
pressed tightly together, lest the headmaster discover how much 
she was enjoying her new role as a naughty schoolgirl -- physical 
evidence of the sort of thoughts that had occupied her mind during 
the hour she had awaited his return.

Such hopes were futile, however.  He ordered Tracy to turn round 
again so he could make a careful survey of the front of her 
knickers.  They were new, clean, and white, and tight enough to 
show a distinct camel toe.  But, as she moved into the light, what 
immediately caught his eye was the large wet spot. 

His eyes widened as he spied the telltale stain in the crotch of 
her underpants.  Her current predicament had been a dream come 
true for him, and now he knew it was HER dream as well.

He realized instantly that she had gotten herself hot and bothered 
staring at the cane, but reckoned that feigning confusion would 
give him the perfect pretext to conduct a close examination of the 
suspect area.  And, given the size of the shameful spot, it would 
be best to get a good "feel" for the situation....

"What's this?" he asked, repeatedly poking the wet spot as if 
he were inspecting a suspiciously soggy bit of poultry at the 
butcher's counter.  "Tracy Smith, did you wet yourself?  Don't 
tell me I'm going to have to get you nappies to wear under your 
uniform."

Tracy, too horrified to speak, remained motionless as his piggy 
fingers insinuated themselves between her legs for a more detailed 
examination.  "Yes, you're wet all right.  In fact, you're soaked. 
What's this?  It seems as though the faster and harder I rub, the 
wetter you get.  Look at that!  My fingers are positively 
glistening with it.  Hello...what's this?" he wondered, rubbing 
his fingers together as Tracy blushed crimson.  "It's quite sticky. 
Did you sit in a tub of syrup?"

He held his fingers to his nose, savoring the aroma of her arousal. 
"Wait a moment," he said, as if the plainly obvious had only now 
occurred to him.  "Is this...are you...?  Tracy Smith, you little 
pervert, are you...AROUSED?"

Tracy, who by this point could take no more, responded to his 
accusation by squeezing her thighs together.  He watched in 
rapt amazement as she simultaneously burst into tears AND 
began shuddering through a staggering orgasm.

As Tracy quaked through her release, the headmaster laid his faux 
outrage on with a trowel, scolding her harshly even as he ogled 
her twitching, jerking crotch.  "Why, you little trollop!" he 
thundered.  "I ought to cane you in front of the whole school for 
this, on the bare, with all the boys watching.  I left you here 
to contemplate your impudence, and you apparently spent the time 
fingering your juicy twat.  You like playing stink-finger, do 
you?  Well, Yellow Rod and I know how to handle randy little 
sluts who can't keep their hands out of their knickers.  We'll 
have the skin off your backside for this!"

Far from curbing her, the tongue-lashing only made her cum more 
intensely, and it wasn't until he tired of calling her dirty 
names that the waves of pleasure finally subsided.

Tracy's fun might have been concluding, but the headmaster's was 
just beginning.  She was still gasping from her orgasm when she 
felt him insert his thick fingers into the front waistband of her 
knickers.  "Well, we'll have these completely off, then.  We can't 
cane you on soggy wet knickers."

Why caning her bare was preferable was left unexplained, although 
clearly it was HIS preference.  She felt a new wave of humiliation 
wash over her as her underpants slid over her thighs and down to 
her knees.

The headmaster was pleased to note that she was indeed a natural 
blonde.  He knelt down in front of the blushing schoolgirl, 
ostensibly to finish removing her knickers, but, in point of 
fact, to get a close-up view of her golden-haired honey pot.

Her pubic hair was trimmed down to a brief landing strip, but it 
was so soft and fair that he could see the lips of her cunt peeking 
out at him.  He was close enough to smell her, and Tracy shuddered 
as she felt his breath on her slit.  "Yes, this is the problem 
area," he said, reaching out to give her a quick rub where she 
needed it most.  "I'll need to keep a close eye on this, to make 
sure you stay out of mischief."

The sensation of his finger rubbing her pleasure button once again 
sent Tracy's head spinning, so much so that she scarcely realized 
it when he dragged her knickers down her legs and over her feet.  
Without haste, he pocketed his trophy as a souvenir of his triumph 
over the impudent upstart who once dared to think that she could 
do his job.

Tracy was in a daze, but she was quickly reminded of how complete 
his victory was when she saw him point at the ominous, darkly 
stained chair.

"Bend over the back of the chair, then reach down and grab the 
front legs.  We need those naughty arse cheeks of yours raised 
high and split wide, so that Yellow Rod can give your bottom the 
attention it deserves."

She complied, although doing so placed her in a painful, awkward, 
and altogether humiliating position.  The chair was large, and she 
was short -- so reaching the chair legs required her to stretch her 
arms at full length.  Even then, she had to stand on tiptoes, and 
the top of the chair was digging directly into her abdomen.

With her knickers off and her skirt pinned up, Tracy's poor bottom 
was shamefully exposed and utterly defenseless.  But she still 
wasn't exposed enough for Chambers, who used his foot to spread 
her legs until the sides of her feet touched the back legs of the 
chair.

He smiled as her bottom cheeks parted, and her whole crotch came 
into view.  Tracy bit her lip, painfully aware that both her 
glistening wet pussy and twitchy bottom hole were now on graphic 
display.

Chambers didn't rush the moment.  He slowly tapped Yellow Rod 
against her flinching bottom, pretending to take aim as he 
relished the sight of her exposed, drooling crotch quivering 
in lust and anticipation and the sounds of her humiliated, 
tearful sniffling.

How often had he pictured her in precisely this position?  How 
often had he dreamed of this moment as he had suffered through 
her snide, dismissive comments at the faculty meetings?  How 
many times had he soothed nerves frazzled by her latest 
treachery by imagining her pert bottom dancing under his cane?

Now the moment of truth had come.  Tracy Smith had earned a harsh 
punishment, and she was going to get it.  She had had this lesson 
coming for a long time, and he was determined to see that she 
learned it...and learned it well.

WHOOSH!

The first stroke shot through the air like a cannonball, and landed 
in the middle of Tracy's lovely, quivering bottom.  Her eyes bulged 
as she tried to form words -- or even scream -- but no sound came 
forth.  Exhausted from the preliminaries, her brain was simply too 
overloaded to vocalize a response to a pain unlike any she had ever 
felt.

The headmaster scarcely noticed, since he was too busy watching the 
lovely red weal form in the direct center of Tracy's previously 
pale bottom.  It started off pink, then swelled into a deep angry 
red...nearly as angry as he felt whenever he thought of his deputy 
headmistress's blatant insubordination.

WHOOSH!

On the second stroke, she was able to vocalize and let out a 
plaintive, screeching wail that reminded him of a cat with its 
tail caught in the door.  It was an appropriate metaphor, for 
she had been a pain in the his backside for months, and now he 
was going to be a pain in hers.

She started to rise, but his voice stopped her cold.  "Remain in 
position, Smith!  José and Jemal from the Varsity football team 
are in the outer office, waiting to see me on other business.  
I'm sure they'd be happy to come in here and hold you down, which 
I will ask them to do if you break position again.  So, if you 
don't want two 18-year-olds ogling your bare bottom (and all the 
treasures in the vicinity), you'll maintain your position."

Tracy, horrified at the thought, dug her nails into the chair and 
held on for everything she was worth.

WHOOSH!

He chuckled as she let out another ghastly wail.  "That WAS a good 
one, wasn't it?" he chortled.  "You're going to have a hard time 
sitting on one of those tiny wooden classroom chairs with that 
stroke throbbing on your bottom."

Tracy's mind was awash with pain and confusion.  "But why would I 
be sitting on...?"

"Why will you be sitting at a student desk?" he said, thoughtfully 
finishing her sentence.  Because, my dear Tracy, for the rest of 
this Halloween day, you're going to live the part you've chosen.  
You're going to BE a student."

"But...," she gasped.

He cut her off.  "Don't argue, it's already done.  A substitute 
is teaching your class now.  You're a student, and you're going 
to be taking classes from teachers you passed over, snubbed, and 
backstabbed in your ambition to reach the top."

"But you can't turn me over to THEM.  They'll...AAAAAAA!"

But that stroke confirmed that he could -- and indeed he had -- and 
there was nothing she could do about it.  With Yellow Rod dicing 
and slicing her bottom like a light-sabre, she was in no position 
to debate.

"You're a student now, Tracy, and that's how I'm going to treat 
you.  And, as per the wonderful suggestion in your note, I'm going 
to give you three extra strokes now across the backs of your 
thighs.  (They won't, of course, count toward your six.)  In your 
short uniform skirt, they will be clearly visible to all the other 
students -- and, indeed, to anyone who cares to look."

WHOOSH!

"My, that is a nasty mark!  I imagine there'll be quite a bit of 
snickering and teasing when everyone in the hallway sees your 
stripes.  Still, I suppose that's part of your punishment, too."

WHOOSH!

"I'm going to make this last one a few inches above your knees," he 
said, taunting her as he gently tapped the cane across the target.  
"Of course, it will make it impossible for you to shift your weight 
to your legs when sitting, but it will be an excellent reminder 
to you -- and to everyone who sees you -- of the importance of 
respecting your betters."

WHOOSH!

"Now that we have those three extras out of the way, we're ready 
for the final stroke, number six.  I'm going to make this a 
diagonal one that cuts across the others.  I want you to think 
about it the next time you suggest that one of your superiors is 
fat, senile, or unfit for his job."

WHOOSH!

She let out a scream that rattled the window.

"You may rise, Tracy, and face me.  Hands on top of your head, 
please."

Tracy, feeling quite exhausted, winced as she slowly eased herself 
up.  The headmaster kept his eyes fixed between her legs as she 
sniveled, sniffled, and sobbed before him.

"You did quite well, Tracy," he patronized.  "I'm particularly 
impressed that you held your position.  I suppose the thought of 
Jemal and José seeing your bare arse wiggling through your spanking 
was quite an incentive.  Then again you always were a bit shy about 
your body, weren't you?"

She by blushing and staring at her shoes.

"Well, as much as I'd like to see you do an hour of corner time, 
your gym class starts in a few minutes.  I'll give you a head 
start, since, from the look of those welts on your bottom, it 
will be quite difficult for you to walk."

"Gym class?"  Tracy gaped.  "But I can't...."

"Ah, but you must!  Oh, you'll look cute as a button in your little 
gym slip, especially with those colorful stripes across the backs 
of your legs.  Of course, I imagine it will be a bit difficult for 
you to run and jump and do calisthenics with those painful welts, 
but you're just going to have to suck it up.  Because if you don't, 
you'll be sent back here for laziness, and you'll have another 
session with Yellow Rod."

She jumped as he SWISHED Yellow Rod through the air to emphasize 
his point.  Another session with the cane on top of her current 
welts would be agony.  Tracy vowed at that moment that, no matter 
how excruciating it might be, she would run like fury and do her 
sit-ups, hip thrusts, and jumping jacks with gusto.

"The class will be taught by Miss Van Dyke, who, I believe, once 
asked you out on a date, when you were still a teacher....  Well, 
when you hit the showers, she'll have a chance to see everything 
you refused to show her back then.  Everything."

"Ev-ever-y-th-thing?  In th-the...the showers?" Tracy stammered.  
He smiled as he watched the shy teacher's face turn ashen.  She 
was actually quite bashful, besides being athletic and petite.  
There would certainly be no problem in stripping her birthday 
bare and pushing her into the shower with 50 or 60 other giggling 
girls.  Her pert little bottom would blend in nicely with all the 
18-year-old cheerleaders and prom queens.  Except, of course, that 
Tracy's bottom would be far more colorful.

Chambers knew that the other girls would tease her about her 
tiny tits and freshly striped bottom.  Tracy, painfully shy, 
wouldn't like it one bit, but, given her former status as 
deputy headmistress, a bit of bullying would be natural.  In 
fact, with his help, it might even be encouraged....

"In front of the class, you will explain to Miss Van Dyke the 
shameful story of EXACTLY what happened to your soggy knickers, 
and you will ask her -- very politely -- to get you another pair 
out of the inventory...together with whatever else you might 
need...at her convenience, of course.  There's no rush.  You 
will tell her the plain, unvarnished truth.  Do you understand?"

Tracy, too horrified to speak, merely nodded.

"Speak up, girl.  Do you understand?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"I expect you to behave yourself today, young lady.  If you become 
embroiled in disputes with your teachers or with other students, 
Yellow Rod will have another discussion with your bottom...and I 
will extend your schoolgirl status until you DO learn to behave 
properly.  Furthermore, prolonged bad conduct might even force me 
to talk to the Board of Governors about making your enrollment a 
permanent arrangement."

She gasped.  He couldn't!  He wouldn't!

Could he?

"Run along, now, Tracy, and don't dawdle.  Miss Spice will give you 
your schedule, and a hall pass that will get you to your gym class, 
where Miss Van Dyke is awaiting your arrival."

"Yes, sir," she said, staring at her shoes as she fell into her 
new role.  "Thank you, s-sir, for taking the time to discipline me."

"Certainly, Tracy," he said, his voice oozing sincerity.  "It was 
my pleasure."

She unpinned her skirt and shuffled slowly into the outer office, 
feeling the pain of her welts with each step.  She ignored the sly 
smiles and vulgar whispers from Jemal and José and snatched her 
pass and schedule from the smiling Miss Spice before gingerly 
exiting into the hall.  

Walking down the hallway, wincing with each step, she was
mortified, shamed, and humiliated.  But she had never been 
so aroused in her life.

Tracy knew the rest of the day would be agony.  Teachers and 
students, anxious for revenge, would bully her mercilessly.  
It would be a day filled with tough decisions, for, if her 
behavior was anything less than exemplary, the headmaster 
might well use her "misconduct" as an excuse to keep her a 
schoolgirl for who knows how long.

She looked at her pass.  She had just enough time before class if 
she hurried.  The tingling between her legs, however, was driving 
her crazy, and she desperately needed relief.  But if she were 
caught....

She scurried into the girls' room.  Though she was sure to be late 
(and how would Miss Van Dyke deal with THAT?), she was determined 
to enjoy yet another treat on the best Halloween of her life.

		

Edited by C. Lakewood