Fourth Time

THE FOURTH TIME by Michelle mich_gsy@yahoo.co.uk

This was the fourth time I had been in his study in as many months.

I was sent to an all-girls boarding school when my parents divorced and I had not been used to such a strict school. I had been at a mixed school and many of my friends were boys, I seemed to get on better with them – there was no bitching and what you see was what you got.

Mr. Rafal was of Indian descent, I think, but had such a mixed accent I could not be sure. Quite a nice-looking man, thinking about it now, but it is not something you consider about your form tutor at that age. He had caned me three times before. I had had to ‘assume the position’ over a bar that I am sure he must have had put in his office especially for this purpose. It had a mirror in front of it at face level (once you were bent) so that he could gauge his victim’s reaction I guess. He always told me exactly what he was going to do before he did it: ‘I am going to raise your skirt…’ and he would do it. ‘I am going to lower your panties…’ and he would lower them to just below my rounded cheeks. ‘Head up. I am going to just give you 6 good strokes to remind you that you must be in by curfew…’ or whatever the misdemeanour had been on each occasion… and the strokes got higher in number each time. At the end he would apply some antiseptic and lingered a few seconds too long when he got towards the bottom of the crack of my arse.

This time was different. ‘This is the fourth time you have been in my study, Michelle,’ he said. ‘My punishments are obviously having no effect on you.’ This time where the bar was, there was now a chair facing the mirror. ‘This time I am going to cut your hair for you and maybe this will remind you every time you look in the mirror that you are not to break the school rules.’

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My head was spinning. ‘Not my hair, please!’ I wailed. I had very thick, dark blonde hair, which was undoubtedly my best feature and certainly attracted the boys. I think Mr. Rafal knew this and suspected that without my beautiful mane I probably would not be leaving the school grounds quite so often.

I continued to protest but he very calmly said, ‘Please take a seat,’ and led me to the chair. ‘Look in the mirror,’ he said. ‘I want you to remember this.’ He brushed my hair into a lovely long ponytail for the last time and secured it quite loosely at about shoulder length. I looked in the mirror, my eyes welling up with tears. He picked up a large pair of shiny silver scissors and began to cut. All the time he was cutting he was watching me in the mirror, the tears streaming down my face. Once he had severed the ponytail he placed it on his desk.

I was left with hair just above the shoulder. Still not a bad length – I was expecting worse. But worse was to come. ‘I am going to cut your hair quite short,’ he said, ‘and I want you to experience it all coming off.’ He started pulling up sections of hair, placing it between his fingers so close to the scalp that I could feel his hand on my head and slicing it off, quite quickly and expertly. The hair rained down over my face and body, filling my lap with what were still relatively long strands of hair. Seeing all the hair come off did nothing to calm me. I am sure he was throwing the sections from the back over the front of me to add to ‘my experience’. My body was wracked with sobs and my head fell. ‘Please look in the mirror,’ he said.

It was coming to the end of the haircut and my hair was about 1-2 inches all over in a sort of pixie style. Mr Rafal pretended to get exasperated with my crying but I think he secretly enjoyed seeing me sob. ‘It is only hair, Michelle, don’t be a baby,’ he said in a calm but stern tone. ‘It will grow back but in the meantime perhaps it will serve as a reminder.’

He put both hands on the sides of my head and with his thumbs at the back, pushed my chin down to my breasts. He started to tidy and shape the back. He cleaned up the nape with the clippers and when he cupped his hand under my chin to lift my head to the mirror again, the tears were still quietly flowing. He looked at me in the mirror.

‘Suck your thumb,’ he said.

‘S…s…sorry?’ I said.

‘Suck your thumb. If you are going to cry like a baby, you can look like one.’

This was truly humiliating. He finished the haircut with me sat there with my thumb in my mouth, sobbing quietly.

There was never a fifth visit.

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