She tapped the cane against my bottom to get the range. She lifted her arm and there was a swish as the cane came down and then a loud crack as it hit me. I cried out; it was impossible not to, but I managed to keep still, more or less. Miss Eva was always very strict on me if I should wriggle or put a hand back to rub my bottom or, even worse, roll out of the way. Another stroke followed, then another, six in quick succession, which left me breathless and shaking. Then there was a pause while Miss Eva inspected the damage, rubbing my bottom, looking at it closely to see how it was marked. She grunted with satisfaction when she saw the six welts right across dead centre, nicely grouped together.
“Ready?” she said, wishing to resume.
“Yes, Miss Eva,” I said in a low voice which was intend
