Preserved for Posterity

Spanking Briefs #2: In what pose would you like to be remembered?

Apr 02, 2025

Two alumni had sneaked into the school’s grand hall since, other than for ceremonies, few ever came here. They were not supposed to be here, which was exactly why they were.

Watching over the space was a stern-faced sentinel. A life-size marble statue, its exquisite details frozen in time for over a hundred years. Its creator had captured his dominant essence, the rippling furrows of his brow, and the dramatic abeyance of his elevated arm. The engraved text on the knee-high plinth declared he was the founder of this institution, its original headmaster.

“Preserved for posterity!” he joked.

She merely murmured her acknowledgement. It would take a while before she fully appreciated her companion’s pun.

The figure stood imperiously upright, its right arm raised high, with a clenched hand grasping the only part of the sculpture not carved from stone: a straight rattan cane, now yellowed with age.

“Do you think he’s commemorated in the pose he was most famous for?” he asked.

She shrugged, jaded by her statue blindness. This school was packed with them, in every corner and hiding crevice, as if a gorgon had once run amok. Oh look, another old white guy, even whiter and stiffer now in marble. Even the one looming over them seemed unremarkable, reminiscent of those ubiquitous military memorials where an honoured solider was remembered in the pose of a classical hero, his sword hoisted high, as if rallying his comrades for one final battle.

She felt him step closer, then his warm breath flow across the nape of her neck.

“Caning. Naughty. Girls.” he clarified, in three slow but mischievous whispers.

In an instant, she understood. Then gasped. How was it possible for something carved from stone to be transformed so profoundly? All by the utterance of three magic words.

She’d always interpreted the sculpture’s raised rod as an exhortation, like a conductor flourishing a baton, a long departed teacher still urging future generations of students onwards to academic excellence. But now what had been seen could not be unseen, she was looking at the backlift of a strict headmaster’s cane.

How had she never seen this before? She felt embarrassingly naive and silly.

Then again, no one had been caned for several generations when she’d been a schoolgirl here. Thinking back, she’d been so ludicrously innocent, only discovering the joys of smacked bottoms years later, and she had him to thank for that. Now she felt a twinge of regret that he’d never teased her by whispering about bygone spankings as they’d walked these corridors as giggling classmates. Their schooldays could have been so excitingly different.

Her curious eyes surveyed the statue afresh. Rising from the plinth to the height of the statue’s hips was what she’d always assumed to be a writing desk, yet now she saw its flat surface lacked any of the academic accoutrements a scholar might possess. No paper, no pens, or pots of ink. Not even any books. Only her new perspective allowed her to see it for what it really was, an archetypal caning bench.

She circled the statue in quiet fascination. At its rear, the wide plinth had been been carved into tiers, creating two small steps that one could stand on. She stepped up from the floor impulsively, raising her chin to see the headmaster’s unwavering stare glowering back. Even if stone, he made her feel so small.

Standing before the bench, she was acutely aware of his rod, hovering just above her head. She looked up, her gaze slowly roving from his clenching hand to the stick’s still yet almost quivering tip. This had to be the old headmaster’s favourite cane, one that had whacked countless naughty bottoms. The very thought gave her goosebumps.

What would happen to a naughty girl, she wondered, whose misbehaviour had earned a summons to his study? She imagined his strict baritone voice telling her to bend over, and duly reached over the flat top of the bench. At once, she could feel the chill of the stone on her tummy, but continued to stretch until she was on her tip-toes, and her fingertips were brushing the old disciplinarian’s petrified shoes.

Touching his shoes seemed to trigger a shockingly vivid image in her mind. He was leaning over her, dutifully whacking her poor upturned bottom. Her desperate sprawling hands were pawing at his shoes, which were all that she could reach. What an extraordinary way to plead for mercy. Please Sir, please. It fired a shiver through her.

Questions began to proliferate in her mind, the kind of enquiries priggish biographies would never answer. Did he lift the skirts of naughty girls, or instruct them to expose themselves? Did he scold them as they laid across the bench, bottoms bare and trembling, or cane them in a tense erotic silence? And afterwards, did he leave them on the bench to sniffle, or send them back to the classroom to sit blushing on their hot sore stripes?

As she imagined the answers, she felt her skirt being lifted, and her underwear being tugged down. She did not protest, and let the skimpy garment fall, cooing coyly in that heart-melting octave halfway between encouragement and lust.

She opened her stance, wishfully hoping the magical view between her legs might somehow bring the statue to life. Or at the very least, inspire the next best thing.

Then she heard him exclaim something in surprise.

“Oh look, the cane comes out!”

Moments later, there was a swish.