Search

Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

Month

August 2014

Naughty Game #1: Squirm

Part 1 of a new series of naughty games, these were originally conceived as ideas for stories, but rather than keep them hidden away in my notebook, I’m going to post them and give you all some new and arousing ideas for playtimes.

This one is called Squirm.
You’ll soon see why…

 

How To Play

Get undressed.

Lie naked on your bed.

Prop some pillows behind your head.

Put your screen somewhere you can see it.

Start playing a sexy video, or – if your imagination prefers the sophistication of an erotic story, start reading.

Spread your arms and legs to the 4 corners of your bed and keep them there. (Unless you need to scroll a story, then you may keep one hand on your phone or tablet).

Stay in that position as you read or watch.

Feel the physical sensations of your arousal.

Feel yourself squirming.

But keep your hands and feet spread.

And definitely no touching!

Watch (or read) until the end.

If you managed to resist the urge to touch yourself, well done! You may now reward yourself with a period of self-touching equal in time to that spent reading or watching. Time yourself.

But once your permitted time is up: stop touching!

If you’re not satisfied yet, you may now choose another video – or another story – and begin the game again.

 

In other words…

The longer the video or story…

The longer your reward…

But the longer you have to wait for it…

BUT…

Every good game needs some jeopardy.

So, if you touch yourself before the video ends or before you’ve finished the story, you will earn a punishment.

In that case, fill in the following message, and give (or send) it to your partner or disciplinarian:

“I was watching/reading [url of video/story]. I know I should have better self-control, but I was very naughty and touched myself after [x minutes y seconds]. Please give me the punishment I deserve.”

Imagine sending Him (or Her) a message like that during the middle of the day. Or writing it on a slip of paper and hiding it for them to discover.

And then you’ll experience a very different type of squirming as you await their response…

Your stories turn me on. A lot. Abstract art wad the first one I read a while ago. I think waiting is my favorite.

It seems ages since I’ve written a story set in a school.

But if you enjoy imagining yourself as a naughty schoolgirl sent to see the Headmistress, with a delicious wait before having your bare bottom spanked, I think you’ll find my latest story very arousing indeed…

Would you ever consider collaborating with a follower to write a story? And have you ever acted out any of the scenes you’ve written about?

Yes, a number of my stories have resulted from conversations with followers, and there’s also been some wonderful contributions written by readers in response to my stories too. I do like to make this blog interactive, so submissions are always welcome.

Have I ever acted out any of the scenes I’ve written about? Of course! A good writer should always draw upon their own experiences. Which ones exactly? Well, I think I’ll keep that my own little secret…

I just read your latest story, and it has made me so wet. The only pleasure I’ve given myself is pulling up on my shorts. My mistress has told me to ask you if I can cum. She told me you can chose how I cum, and a punishment for being such a naughty girl. Or just a punishment and denial. I’ve been such a bad girl for being so wet. Thank you.

There are many spankings in my new story, but wise readers will have realised the real theme of the story isn’t pain and punishment, but appreciation and discipline. So I’m not going to sentence you to a spanking.

Instead, as it was Clara’s predicaments that seem to have got you so excited, it’s only fair that you share the same fate.

So, for the next 7 nights, I would like you to undress to your panties and do 10 Ups and Downs. Here’s what to do:

Start your phone timer (or get a clock or watch that shows seconds) and put it on the floor in front of you where you can see it.

1) Spend 30 seconds with your hands on your head, breathing slowly and deeply.

2) When time is up, begin to pull down your panties – slowly! – this should take you 30 seconds.

3) Then put your hands on your head and wait whilst exposed for another 30 seconds.

4) Then pull your panties up – again slowly! – this should also take you 30 seconds.

Two minutes should now have elapsed on your timer.

Now go back to step 1 and repeat the process another 9 times.

That’s the discipline part. Now for the appreciation.

When you’ve finished your Ups and Downs I want you to write a message to your mistress, telling her how much she means to you, and how much you appreciate her discipline.

Stay as you are, completely naked, and don’t touch yourself.

You may write you message on paper, or write it electronically if your mistress isn’t present. Then give (or send) your message, and wait for her reply.

She may permit you to come, or deny you that pleasure – but if you truly appreciate her you should be equally happy whatever her decision.

Do that, and over the course of these next 7 nights, I think you’ll come to appreciate what this particular story really means…

So, what did you think of the new story?

Which is here, just in case you missed it:

http://spankingtheatre.tumblr.com/post/94946743610/ups-and-downs

Ups and Downs: Part 1

A story of appreciation and discipline, in two parts


I’m standing in disgrace at the front of the class, in a classroom that’s not really a classroom. 

I must confess, I didn’t take my assignment seriously. I thought it was all a bit of a giggle. Now here I am, my back to the rest of the class and my dress hitched up above my waist. I can hear my classmates scribbling busily behind me, they’ve been warned that any dawdling and they’ll be dragged up here to join me. Even so, I wonder how many have risked looking up from their pages to sneak a peek at me.

I feel the tremble of approaching footsteps again. I hold my breath, bracing myself for what I know happens next. A single whack from a wooden ruler stings my left bottom cheek. I scrunch my mouth shut, I don’t want to give the class the satisfaction of hearing my discomfort.

Of course, the smack to my bum is more than just chastisement. It’s also my signal. I obediently lift my hands from the top of my head and reach downwards to my sides, my fingers sliding inside my knicker elastic. I bend at my waist, slowly pulling my panties all the way down to my ankles. From bitter experience I know if I attempt to pull down my underwear too quickly, I’ll get a volley of smacks across the backs of my thighs. 

So I must pull down my panties slowly… Very… Slowly… And that means lingering in the most shameful position of all. The one where my bare bum juts out towards the class, making my cheeks spread apart, admitting a breeze of cool air that tingles my most intimate parts. For several seconds as I lower my panties down my calves, I can’t help but reveal my bottom hole and the little slit that lies just beneath, and all its secret folds. The moment my panties reach my ankles I leap up, bolt upright, replacing my hands on the top of my head, my face burning, knowing I’ve just exposed my everything.

Behind me, I just know my classmates are surreptitiously looking up from their essays, sneaking sly looks at the pink patches now spreading across my newly exposed flesh. I know this because that’s exactly what I do when others occupy my current position. And then the footsteps recede again, and I’m left alone.

Waiting.

Blushing.

Throbbing.

All too soon I hear the footsteps return. The next whack is on my bare bum, applied to the sore patch now developing on my right bottom cheek. This is my cue to bend down and pull up my panties – slowly of course – allowing all those witnessing my disgrace another good long look between my legs.

My skin is now exquisitely sensitive, I can feel the material of my underwear tickling as it passes up my thighs. Then there’s a moment when my gusset nestles between my intimate lips just before I roll the rest over the tender flesh of my newly spanked bottom. My obligation done, my hands fly back to the top my head, and I wait for the dread thud of approaching footsteps again.

On the next stinging whack, I’ll pull my panties down again. 

Whack, up, wait. 

Whack, down, wait. 

Up and Down. Up and Down.

My slow-motion spanking will continue until the ruler-wielder is satisfied I’ve learned my lesson. Though I must confess, when I’ve watched this exquisite bottom-warming show from the classroom seats: I’ve never wanted it to stop. 

Does that make a bad girl?


* * 1 * *

To enter the rambling grounds of Wengrave Hall, all visitors must pass under a timeworn red-brick arch. Verdant moss fills every crevice between its russet blocks, giving the impression of passing through a short tunnel of lush green velvet, that those who enter are somehow leaving the outside world behind. It’s not until the end of the tunnel that I finally catch my first glimpse of the grand old Elizabethan edifice beyond. 

Wengrave Hall is a grand concerto in brickwork, a composition of rusty reds and sandy whites, a rhythm of faux ramparts rising to thrilling crescendos of elaborate brick chimney-stacks and ornamental domed turrets. It’s like stepping back in time, to a bygone world of carriages, intrigues, ruffs and codpieces.

The path that takes me from under the arch is paved by rounded granite slabs, each deliberately placed so patches of grass can grow between them. The effect is to create a sweep of stepping stones, each becoming progressively smaller to the eye as they ascend the grassy slope to the Hall in a gentle curve. 

Not that the grounds are over-managed, the sea of green that dances in the breeze all around me is more meadow than lawn, with splashes of colour from clusters of daisies and buttercups. It takes me several minutes to reach the building’s entrance, a domineering two-storey gatehouse that wouldn’t look out of place at the front of castle, its massive stone archway flanked by two turreted towers.

This is my first visit to the Hall, but Jenny has told me all about it. From what I remember reading, this grand Elizabethan manor was built on the site of an old priory that was ultimately dissolved by the edicts of Henry the Eighth. After that, the monks gave way to aristocrats, whose lavish lifestyles over the next hundred years accumulated debts that ultimately proved their undoing. A century of upheaval and disrepair followed, until a new owner rescued it from decrepitude.

I think I’m right in saying that Jonah Snow, the man who bought and restored the Hall, was a self-made man. Mister Snow was New Money, one of an emerging  generation of traders, investors and entrepreneurs, and one who had little interest in ingratiating himself into the upper classes. He seemed to despise the privilege of inherited wealth, believing instead in the power of education and self-improvement. Perhaps this was what motivated him in his later years, as the shadow of his own mortality began to loom, because he transformed the Hall from a stately home into a college, bequeathing the property and the funds to sustain the school to a trust. 

Now, over two centuries later, the venerable institution of Wengrave Hall continues his legacy as a prestigious private girls’ school. But the Hall is not a place for the privileged few. Still funded from Snow’s original bequest, it does not charge fees, and so continues to admit students from every social background. In his will, the founder stipulated only two requirements for prospective students: one was a commitment to academic excellence, an undertaking that each pupil would strive for greatness commensurate with their talents. The other was the understanding that if any ever fell short of these exceedingly high expectations, they would be spanked.

The gatehouse arch opens into a verdant quadrangle, criss-crossed by paved paths and fringed by red rose bushes. Several girls in light grey marl blazers ghost past me, their footsteps barely audible, greeting me with respectful nods and welcoming smiles. Near the central fountain I spot a taller figure in darker clothes surveying the scene. Though I haven’t seen her for years, this woman is unmistakable. Then she recognises me too, her face suddenly illuminated by a huge smile. She begins to stride forward as quickly as decorum allows, until a couple of paces away she throws open her arms in an enthusiastic welcoming embrace.

“Clara Tayborn! Goodness me!” she exclaims breathlessly.

“Jenny White! My old friend!” I wheeze, as the contents of my lungs are squeezed out by her enthusiastic hug. 

The joy in her welcome is infectious, so by the time our embrace ends I find myself beaming from ear to ear too. I am genuinely glad to see her again, it’s been much too long. Once we were the best of friends, until our school days ended and circumstances conspired to separate us.

Instinctively, we both take a step back to scrutinise each other, taking in the unspoken stories imparted by our appearances. Jenny’s hair is shorter than I recall, now styled into a coal-black bob. She’s wearing a tailored dark navy jacket cut in to flatter her enviable waist, a matching skirt that extends to her knee, and dark leather flat-soled ballet pumps. She seems less flamboyant and more sensible than I remember her. Then again, that was before she became the Headmistress of Wengrave Hall.

And then I feel a tug on my hand, and she’s leading me somewhere. Just like she always did. 



Our conversation is accompanied by the clink of fine china teacups.

From the quad I took Clara to my study, where we spent the afternoon excitedly chatting, like the teenagers we once were. After all, we had almost a decade of stories to tell, our times at our respective universities, far-flung holidays, the drama of new jobs, the joys and disappointments of relationships – tales of the landmarks we encounter along life’s twisting journey.

Clara plays with her hair as she talks, every now and then running a hand down the back of her neck, sweeping her straight sand-coloured hair from one shoulder to the other. She’s more demure than I remember, with less warpaint on her pretty gamine face. 

After graduating, it seemed Clara had begun working in the Middle East as a private tutor to some oil-rich family. But though her job had been financially lucrative, there was only so long one could tolerate life in a desert, no matter how good the air-conditioning and swimming pools. So she had returned to England last year, becoming the governess for a family just outside London. That made us chuckle: that we, the original hellraisers, should now both be in charge of the discipline of others.

“This is a beautiful place,” Clara comments, “and your girls seem incredibly well-behaved. Most schools I’ve visited are a hubbub of shrieks, shouting and running around – like several small fires have just broken out on the premises.” 

“We do strive to create an urbane, respectful atmosphere here” I acknowledge.

“So, what’s your secret?” she asks, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

I hesitate, scanning my old friend’s face for a few moments, assessing whether I should really tell her the truth – or just waffle some perfunctory truisms. Yes. I can see the earnestness in her eyes, because we both know discipline is the real reason we’re both sitting here together today. 

It had all begun a couple of weeks ago with a chime that signaled the arrival of a new text message. It had been ages since I’d heard from Clara, I knew from Facebook that she’d recently returned home, but we were several hours travel apart, and hadn’t been in touch. It sounds terrible when put like that, when we used to be such good friends. Were we really too busy to find time for each other?

So we exchanged the usual short-form smalltalk, a few how-are-you, so-lovely-to-hear-from-you messages. And then, to my surprise, Clara called me. We chatted about old times and our latest news. It wasn’t long before the real reason behind her sudden communication transpired. Clara had a problem.

I lower my teacup to the saucer on the little table between us and fix her with my gaze. I want to look into her big blue eyes, to see just how she reacts.

“My secret is good old-fashioned spankings on the bare bottom.”

Clara’s eyes widen. I don’t think she’s shocked, perhaps just a bit taken aback by my bluntness. After all, she knows me, intimate things few others know. I’m sure that’s why she contacted me in the first place.

“But that’s exactly how I discipline the girls, and…”

“Then you must be doing it wrong.” I interrupt, my friendly chatty tone replaced by something more formal, more authoritative.

The two girls are Clara’s new charges, she has previously described them to me as spoilt, rude, impetuous and unruly to the point of delinquency. But they sound just like typical teenagers to me. Clearly there was an absence of respect in their household, so I was rather surprised when Clara admitted to using corporal punishment. Not that there’s anything wrong with correcting the wayward through bottom-smacking. But there’s an art to applying it, a craft that has nothing at all to do with inflicting pink patches on the bum, but creating an impact in a quite different region of the body altogether.

Clara looks rather crestfallen at my implied criticism. She knows she’s losing control, failing those she’s supposed to be looking after. There is a pregnant silence. 

“Come visit me, Jenny!” she implores. “Meet the girls, tell me how to put things right.”

“Of course I will” I reply, reaching across the teacups to grasp her hand reassuringly.

And then I changed the subject. It wasn’t long before the smile had returned to my old friend’s face.


* * 2 * *

I’m on my way to witness a spanking. Of course, I’m no stranger to seeing bottoms smacked, but as I get closer I can physically feel my anticipation, my breathing quickening, the dampness of my palm, and the sheen of sweat I’m leaving on the bulbous knob of my gearstick. 

I recognised Clara’s voice over the intercom. Through the modern marvel of sat-nav I found her new abode quite easily, despite it being hidden in secluded corner of the Chiltern countryside. Access to their drive was blocked by a security gate of thick black iron railings that looked like they belonged alongside a moat and a drawbridge. Watching them clunk and rattle backwards after Clara had buzzed me in got me thinking: how funny that so many ancient objects still endure in modern-day guises. Two thousand years on, and we still feel the need to secure our domains from outlaws, and we still haven’t invented anything better than iron gates. And we’re still correcting naughty bottoms with slaps from slats of wood and strips of leather.

Beyond the gate there’s a short drive to the mansion, a private tarmac road that winds around two tree-lined bends before the building itself comes into view. Large undecorated columns dominate the facade, with large full-height lantern windows in between. It looks Palladian, or a perhaps a contemporary architect’s imagining of what a Georgian stately home should be. 

The front of the house is fringed by a wide sandstone terrace, with steps leading down to the gardens. So the driveway doesn’t go as far as the main porch, but curves off about twenty metres from the house, finishing at a row of garages and a small sunken parking area. Somewhat shyly, I park beside Clara’s electric blue hatchback, rather than beside the blood-red Mercedes roadster or the obsidian black BMW saloon. Clara has told me her employers moved here from Hong Kong, and despite the presence of their vehicles here, they’re apparently on one of their regular trips abroad right now.

I’m here because of a phone call, which I received several days after Clara visited me at the Hall. Clara had sounded angry and exasperated – trouble with one of her girls again it seemed, and she had repeated her earlier invitation. I had told her I’d be happy to visit, and so we’d made arrangements, I’d travel down on Friday evening and stay the night. 

There’s a scurry of approaching feet as Clara jogs from the porch to welcome me, almost knocking me backwards with her enthusiastic embrace. After exchanging our so-lovely-to-see-you’s she escorts me into the house and up the grand main staircase to one of the guest bedrooms, where I unpack my overnight bag and refresh myself. 

When I rejoin Clara downstairs she takes me on a brief tour of the house. We start in the plushly furnished living room, where two young ladies are sitting side by side on the sofa. Both wear their hair casually, tied back in a single pony-tails, but each is in a startlingly different state of attire. The younger-looking girl is dressed in black skinny jeans and a thin slouchy grey-flecked cardigan, whereas the elder-looking girl is wearing just a pale blue pyjamas.

“Girls. I want you to meet my friend Jenny White, she’ll be staying with us tonight.”

“This is Lei…” says Clara, nodding to the younger girl, who looks up from her iPad to nod back respectfully. I recognise just a trace of a Chinese accent in her hello, now probably anglicised by years of home-counties private schooling. 

“And this is Xiu…”

Clara pronounces her name like an abrupt yet dainty sneeze. She doesn’t need to explain why the girl is already dressed for bed in the middle of the evening, and the teenager doesn’t bother to speak or even acknowledge me, she merely keeps her arms folded and stares sullenly at the shaggy carpet between her feet.

Perhaps not surprisingly, given the agenda for evening, the atmosphere in the living room was uncomfortably frosty, so after a cursory glance to its four corners we leave the girls to continue my tour of the house. It is immaculately decorated, an eye-catching fusion of oriental ambience and old English country home. It is also impressively vacuous, room after room all lying empty, as if the house was hibernating, awaiting the arrival of a crowd of guests to give it purpose.  

My tour ends in a large conservatory, topped by a sloping roof of wide glass panels through which I can stare into the dark-blue dusky skies beyond. One side overlooks the gardens below, jutting forward like the prow of a ship mastering the waves.

The interior space is arranged as conservatories often are, fringed with rows of large ferns and palms in giant terracotta pots, and several chairs and couches made of bamboo cane, with an open space unoccupied in the centre. It’s not completely empty though, a single waist high piece of furniture stands alone, spot lit by the room’s downlights. It looks suspiciously like a spanking bench. I must not have disguised my fascination well enough, I think I see a smirk on Clara’s face. 

Clara says nothing of the eye-catching object, and merely suggests I sit whilst she goes to make some tea. Her absence gives me an opportunity to investigate this tantalising item further. The bench is made of rosy brown wood, but is quite unlike any other I’ve seen. Most benches have right-angled frames, a pair of vertical legs rising to meet the horizontal crossbeams, but the legs of this beauty are two perfect arches, two thick beams expertly bent in the middle. Each end is almost vertical where they touch the floor, curving slowly as they ascend, then bending sharply as they reach their apex. Their peak is reminiscent of a gothic arch, or a lady’s most intimate entrance.

The whole bench is just wider than a shoulder width, with a rounded mound of smooth chamois leather between the tops of each arch, perfectly crafted to be flush with the curves of the frame. The bench has no means of adjusting its height, as if it just is what it is – but there are little hollows carved into the back of each arched beam that I deduce will accommodate the toes of all manner of miscreants, tall and small. To the side of each hole is a discreet rounded wooden peg, onto which fits a short thick leather band, a heel strap to keep its occupant in place.

The legs of each arch are beautifully carved, covered in elaborate filigree arabesques, repeating geometric patterns of dazzling complexity. It seems my old friend brought back an extraordinary memento from Arabia, I can just imagine her exploring the furthest corners of some ancient desert souk. It’s an artefact of such bewildering splendor and uniqueness that I begin to wonder if Clara also brought back a magic carpet too.

I’m still gawking at the bench when Clara returns with a tray of tea and some morsels to eat. She recognises my expression and smiles proudly.

“Lovely, isn’t it?”



As we drain the last drops of tea from our cups, there’s a moment of tense silence, we both know it’s time.

As we’d sipped, Clara had regaled me with tales of her various trials and tribulations, her attempts to corral her spoilt, rebellious charges. Though to me it seemed both girls just possessed a fierce independence, and I wonder if that was a result of being brought up by a succession of au pairs, childminders and governesses rather than their own jetsetting parents. Without the continuity of discipline from their own mum and dad, I suspect they’d become experts at pushing the boundaries of every new carer, searching for blind-spots and exploiting their weaknesses. 

The current bone of contention was a curfew. Xiu was now old enough to drive, and seemed to be enjoying spreading her wings. Clara had mandated Xiu had to be back at home before midnight, like some modern-day Cinderella. The problem was Xiu’s friends ran a very busy social life, and the good parties didn’t really get going until well past midnight. This hedonistic frivolousness had horrified her workaholic parents, and Clara had been instructed to intercede. So an ultimatum had been issued: stay out late – get spanked. I suspect the teenager secretly reckons it’s a pretty reasonable deal.

Clara stands and leaves the room, and I hear her footsteps recede upstairs, a few minutes later I hear her descend, and then there’s the sound of raised voices in the distance. When she returns to the conservatory Xiu is just in front of her. The teenager’s gait is forced and her expression indignant, as if Clara is shooing a reluctant animal to market. It’s not an unreasonable metaphor actually, as I notice Clara is holding some kind of some whip, a light-coloured riding crop. 

Xiu harrumphs when she sees me present, muttering sarcastically, “Enjoy the show.”

With her free hand Clara takes hold of Xiu’s wrist and tugs her until she’s standing behind the bench. She does not stand on ceremony, immediately reaching down to the girl’s waist and rapidly untying the drawstring of her pyjama bottoms. They slip to the ground moments later, she is not wearing anything underneath.

There’s a pause as we wait for Xiu to bend over the bench, but she stands her ground defiantly until Clara gives her a smack of encouragement on her bare bottom. That provokes a tetchy yelp. Only then does the girl step forward to the bench, putting her right foot into the second lowest foothole, and then her left foot into the next highest hole on the other side, before moving her right foot to the hole above too. Xiu repeats this motion, like she’s climbing a miniature ladder, until she’s high enough that she can bend over the curved cushion at the top of the bench.

Clara reaches down to attach the straps across the back of Xiu’s heels, I notice they were already attached to the little pegs three holes up. Likewise the straps Clara uses to secure her wrists are in just the right place. From these clues I deduce the bench’s present occupant must be a regular visitor.

Clara positions herself behind the girl and levels her crop across the lower side of Xiu’s bare cheeks, tapping several times to claim her audience’s attention.

“You know you’re not allowed to stay out late, and what the consequences are” sighs Clara, in a manner that suggests that she’s given this pre-disciplinary speech too many times to put any more effort into it.

“Stupid rule…” Xiu mutters into the floor, “You don’t understand.”

Her cheeky riposte earns her a first whack to her bottom. The crop Clara wields is as long as her forearm, a thin stem tipped by a rounded tongue of sand-coloured leather. The stem seems to have Arabic writing inscribed on it, no doubt another souvenir from her Middle Eastern adventure. I have a ringside seat for this performance, close enough to see the think pink line and small round blush the crop leaves each time it smacks across the girl’s bare bum.

Clara moves her arm slightly, positioning the tip of the crop elsewhere on Xiu’s bottom. She spanks with little backswing, accurately placing her blows all across her target’s helpless cheeks. Xiu flinches, yelps and squirms in response to every smack, I can hear the leather of the restraints squeak, but never a creak from the spanking bench, it seems absolutely resolute, perfectly crafted.

The sting in her cheeks seems to have loosened Xiu’s tongue, she begins to talk back, vacillating between pleas that she’s had quite enough now, and florid accusations of unfairness, vindictiveness and cruelty. But despite both her buttocks now being quite pink all over, I sense little evidence that she’s learning anything constructive from the discipline that Clara is providing. She’s still just as tetchy, just as resentful, only now she has a burning backside too.

Clara is raising her crop higher now, spanking ever more vigorously. The bench is expertly designed, its angles stretching the limbs of its occupant so their buttocks splay apart, revealing the intimate triangle in between. In my experience most girls become aroused during a spanking, whether they like it or not, but I can see Xiu isn’t excited in the slightest. The thin line between her legs shut tight in protest. 

Perhaps aware her childish protests were fallen on deaf ears, Xiu has now stopped talking. Now she greets each spank with a stifled yowl, as if determined not to reveal how much it hurts. She maintains her composure admirably, refusing to give in and shriek or sob, even as the last volley of hard whacks shudder against her tender skin. 

And then there is silence. I notice all three of us are breathing heavily, each for very different reasons.

Clara lowers her whip and lets Xiu lie over the bench for a few minutes. As I survey the girl’s rosy cheeks, I can’t help but notice her little clenched fists.

Eventually Clara unfastens the restraints and helps Xiu down from the bench. The girl says nothing upon dismounting, but merely fixes her governess with a look of seething anger. She snatches her pyjama bottoms off the floor and pulls them rapidly up and over her sore pink cheeks, before storming out of the conservatory and stomping upstairs. Moments later, in the far distance, I hear a door slamming.

At the time I held my peace and said nothing, but I was already thinking that Clara might herself benefit from a bit of private tuition. Not in the Art of Bottom Smacking, in which she seems eminently qualified, but the gentle Art of Persuasion instead. 



That night, I couldn’t sleep. Perhaps it was the unfamiliar bed, or mentally replaying what I’d witnessed earlier. It was as if I had unfinished business downstairs, that something was calling me, luring me. Eventually, I had to give in to my curiosity. I put on a nightshirt and creep like a cat burglar down the stairs, stepping through patches of ambient moonlight.

Inevitably, I find myself in the conservatory again. The glass ceiling is now inky black, sprinkled with a dust of twinkling stars. The night sky has always mesmerised me, the ultimate masterpiece of pointillism, epic on a scale that staggers the mind. Beneath the stellar canopy, the spanking bench dominates the space, glowing in a shaft of silvery moonlight.

Something makes me take off my nightshirt, and I drop it absent-mindedly to the floor. Naked, I approach the bench as a naughty girl might, its looming presence growing until it completely dominates my field of vision. Over the centuries, how many have made this walk? How many for punishment and how many for pleasure?  

When I put my toes into the lowest footholes, I’m pleasantly surprised to discover each seems to be lined with soft felt, like I’m slipping on a pair of particularly snug slippers. I linger a while, and then climb a few steps higher until I’m able to bend over the top and reach down to the other side. 

Below me the bench is absolutely steadfast, never moving, as if I were bending over a granite boulder. I sense its perfect solidity, how its shape holds me in a tight embrace, stretching my hamstrings, forming my buttocks into perfect mounds, parting my legs to reveal all my secrets.

I find myself longing for someone to discover me, to tighten the straps around my wrists and my heels. To render me helpless – and then as I struggle in vain – to give me what naughty girls get. I can feel the cool night air tickling my moistening slit.

With my head bowed I notice for the first time a hidden panel in one of the arches, it’s positioned so only the one bending over the bench can see it, and even then, only when I hold my head at the right angle. In the dimness, a shiny cursive script glints in the moonlight, like a magic spell or a druid’s incantation. How unexpectedly intriguing.

Bent over, I’m unable to touch myself, so I use the footholes to climb a little higher, until I can swing a leg over and straddle it. The top surface of bench is narrow, only a couple of fingers wide. I lift my feet, pulling them up and back until the tops of my toes rest on the upper leather surface, then adjust my balance, so my kneecaps are pointing at the ground, and all my weight is forced onto my crotch. I gasp as my descent pulls my slick lips apart.

With my feet off the floor I had to shift my weight back and forth to grind myself against the soft leather ridge. Yet despite all my vigorous exertions, not a creak comes from the bench, its craftsmanship is truly exceptional.

Seated in this position I’m unable to put my fingers into my cunt, but that just makes my clit even needier. So I work it with a fingertip, then bite my forearm, moaning my pleasure into my own flesh in an attempt to avoid waking the house. I climax imagining what Xiu might have done just before going to sleep, rubbing her own spanked cheeks until she was soaked, and then impaling herself on her fingers.

Everything after that was a bit of a daze. I remember just about being able to dismount from the bench onto my wobbly legs, and wiping the sticky evidence of my naughty nocturnal adventure from the top of the bench with my nightshirt. When I eventually did sneak back into my bedroom, I fell into a deep and contented sleep.

Later that morning, I made a detour via the conservatory before meeting Clara in the kitchen for breakfast, to surreptitiously snap a few souvenir photos of her marvellous spanking bench on my phone. Naturally, I made sure to capture a close-up of that curious hidden message too.

After breakfast, we went for an amble into the surrounding countryside, through a beautiful bluebell wood and up into the rolling Chiltern Hills. It was a gloriously warm spring day, a pale blue sky filled by cotton-wool clouds. We had a picnic lunch sitting on treestumps, chatting easily as sparrows and finches chirped excitedly in the hedgerows, and the occasional red kite glided lazily overhead. 

We continued talking all the way back to the house. With every passing hour I spent in Clara’s company, my regret at not keeping in touch with my old friend deepened. Once we’d been so close, how could we had let something that precious drift away? I felt a lump in my throat when we hugged and said goodbye. But this time, each of us earnestly vowed to meet again soon. 


* * 3 * *

So, here I am again, at Wengrave Hall. This peculiar bubble of old-fashioned gentility hidden in the heart of the English countryside. This time though, I’m here at Jenny’s instigation. She rang me a few days ago, earlier that day it seems an ‘incident’ had occurred, and she invited me to return to the school to witness the ‘consequences’. I suspect here Jenny was just being tactful, and that ‘consequences’ are a euphemism for ‘good old-fashioned spankings on the bare bottom’. I’m about to find out.

I’m with Jenny in her study, a large comfortably furnished room of ceiling high bookcases, long-pile carpets and soft furnishings. I’m sitting on one of its two elegant sofas, with Jenny sitting to my left, behind a huge treacle-coloured wooden desk. Behind her, golden late afternoon light streams through two full-length bay windows, making her edges glow, as if she’s an apparition of a goddess in a temple. The same light glints off the clock on the far wall, its thick brass rim gleaming like an oversized wedding ring. The bell heralding the end of the school day rang 7 minutes ago, and now we’re both awaiting a knock on the door.

“So… is this a regular occurrence?” 

I ask as casually as I can manage. But inside, my tummy is fluttering.

“Actually, no” Jenny confided, before clarifying.

“Most spankings tend to occur at the beginning of terms, when the girls return, still rather boisterous from their holidays. They can slip back into bad habits, you see. But a smacked bottom and a good talking-to is typically enough to ensure several more months of impeccable behaviour. It’s rare I need to correct a girl this late in the term.”

As if to emphasise her point I see her gaze wander into the middle of the room, to the sturdy black piano stool that wasn’t there during my previous visit. The stool’s matte finish and top cushion of coal-black leather seem to be the only object in the room not glowing in the strong sunlight. It’s a dark, ominous presence in our midst, a magnet for an idle mind, a psychological black hole absorbing incident light. There is no accompanying piano.

As our conversation lulls my mind races, imagining all the different ways a girl could be punished across this sinister stool. 

Bent over, elbows and toes on the floor. 

Bottom raised high for a good caning. 

Skirt up. Panties down. 

Swick! Swick! Swick! 

And thin pink lines glow across her cheeks.

Or perhaps Jenny will sit on the stool herself.

A finger beckoning the miscreant towards her lap.

She’d reach under her hem, tugging down her underwear.

Before grabbing the girl’s wrist and dragging her over her lap.

Then she’d lift her skirt.

Scolding her as she rubbed her paddle across her bare bum.

Or maybe Jenny is more inventive. 

Lie on the stool, girl. On your back please.

Now lift your feet high into the air. 

She’d pull her panties up, rather than pull them down.

A forearm behind the ankles to keep her in position. 

As the strap in her other hand cruelly slaps her bum and thighs…

Three short knocks on the door abruptly interrupt my daydreaming.

“Enter!” calls Jenny. 

I take a couple of deep breaths and hope I don’t appear too flustered. 

A teenage girl enters almost apologetically, as if she’s the bearer of some depressingly bad news. Her appearance is immaculately smart, a creaseless white blouse beneath her grey marl blazer, a perfect windsor knot in her thin blue and white striped tie. Her shoulder-length chestnut-brown hair is equally tidy, it shines in the sunlight, I think she may have just come from brushing it.

“Ah, Stephanie!”, announces Jenny, welcoming her in a manner good deal warmer than I’d expected.

“Good Afternoon, Miss”, Stephanie replies, her eyes momentarily flicking over to me, uncertain of whether she should acknowledge me as well.

“This is Miss Clara…” explains Jenny. 

“She’s a governess, and is here to see what happens to naughty girls at our school. Perhaps you’d like to explain what brings you here?”

“Of course, Miss”, Stephanie says, tentatively turning to face me. 

“Good Afternoon, Miss Clara” 

I see her pause and take a deep breath, composing herself. 

“I’m here because on Tuesday afternoon I slapped Tess after she’d said some very hurtful things.”

There’s another pause as she swallows audibly, before she turns back to face her headmistress.

“I’m very sorry about what happened, Miss. I know it was very wrong for me to react that way.”

“I should think so, Stephanie!” Jenny interjects.

“The girls of Wengrave Hall should be sisters, not pugilists who settle disputes with their fists. I expect better from you.”

“Yes Miss”, croaks the girl, who looks crestfallen.

“So, what do you think the consequences of your misbehaviour should be?”

The pupil pauses, swallowing conspicuously.

“I deserve a good hard spanking on my bare bottom, Miss.”

The girl turns to face me again, looking into my eyes.

“I’m sorry you’ll have to witness my punishment, Miss Clara. I hope you won’t be offended.”

My tongue feels dry, I realise my mouth is slightly open, I close it as subtly as I can. The girl swivels to face her headmistress again.

“May I have permission to undress, Miss?”

Did I hear that?

My friend nods, “Yes, you may.”

With that, the girl turns to the empty sofa and takes off her blazer, laying it respectfully on the sofa seat. Next, she loosens her tie, pulling it apart until it’s just a long length of stripy fabric. Jenny and I watch in silence as she unbuttons her blouse, folding it neatly on top of her blazer. Underneath, I can see her white bra, a plain white garment with discreet lace edging, moments later she has reached behind herself and unclipped it, baring the small round mounds of her chest.

Goodness, I find myself thinking, this is an unexpected twist.

Without pausing she reaches down to untie and remove her shoes, before peeling off her light grey ankle socks. A brief fiddle at her waist to unbutton her skirt, and it slides silently down her thighs before being neatly folded and laid out with all her other clothes. She had disrobed with remarkable alacrity, it must have taken her no more than a minute. 

Now she’s standing before us in just her plain white panties, which have the look of  school-regulation underwear, modestly covering the whole of her buttocks and the tops of her thighs. Her final act is to place her hands on her head, standing bolt upright in silence, as if waiting the Headmistress’s verdict.

I pull my gaze away from the middle of the room and look left to Jenny. She is almost expressionless, perhaps just a slight furrow in her brow, as if the girl before us was some kind of conundrum to solve. I try to look with new eyes, to look beyond the near-nakedness of the girl’s slender figure, to try to scrutinise her as Jenny is doing. Perhaps she is evaluating the girl’s body language: how sorry is she, really? Is her mind truly ready to accept her discipline, or is she secretly resentful, and merely going through the motions?

In the silence, the sexual tension is palpable. Then Jenny speaks.

“Pull down your panties, Stephanie.” 

I hear myself swallow loudly.

Without pleading for a reprieve, Stephanie slips her fingertips into the waistband of her underwear and begins to tug it over her hips. Her mound is exposed first, shaved perfectly bare, then the little fleshy contours of her slit. She pulls the garment down her thighs slowly and deliberately, leaning over as it approaches her knees, facing the floor by the time she’s lowered her panties to the floor. Then she straightens up and replaces her hands on her head.

A distant memory makes my tummy flip, I can feel my heart pounding in my chest.

“Why are you standing in front of us naked, Stephanie?” asks Jenny.

“Because I’ve been a naughty girl, Miss. And I deserve a good spanking on my bare bottom.”

The three of us wait in silence. This is quite unlike any prelude to a spanking I’ve ever seen. After about 30 seconds, Jenny speaks again.

“Panties up.”

The girl complies immediately, bending over and drawing her underwear upwards at the same unhurried pace as when she’d pulled it down.

Oh yes, I remember this.



I can’t remember exactly who invented the game. I think it just evolved from our furtive explorations, during a time when my girlfriends and I were young and curious. It must have been after that age when our parents had taught us to be ashamed, that nudity wasn’t decent or proper, and there was one particular region of our bodies that was especially dirty, a naughty place that should never, ever, be revealed. So naturally, when we were playing upstairs undisturbed, and our parents were lounging in the garden, drinking and chatting, it was inevitable we’d try to discover what the fuss was all about.

I think it began as a forfeit. We had a wooden block game, some kind of vertical dominoes, and my girlfriends and I would all stand around a table and take it in turns to slot in a domino piece, gradually establishing an eccentric tower of blocks. The game was won by the player who managed to place all their dominoes, the challenge was avoiding collapsing our shared construction as it grew taller. But these games rarely produced a winner, our shaky hands and poor architectural planning regularly conspiring to topple the tower, forcing us all to start again.

Growing frustration almost made us abandon the game, until one of us had a bright idea: if you were responsible for the tower coming down, your panties had to come down too. Thus the loser would play the next game with her panties bunched around her ankles, and her skirt or dress rolled up above the waist. 

This arrangement was carefully conceived, allowing whoever was exposed to quickly regain her modesty should adult footsteps be heard ascending the stairs to our playroom. Then, if someone else was responsible for toppling the tower in the next game, you got to pull up your panties and she had to pull down hers instead. And so the game came to be known as Ups and Downs.

It wasn’t long before we added an additional jeopardy. If you were responsible for toppling the tower twice in a row, your panties would be already down. So it was agreed that the culprit would have to face an additional forfeit, bending over with your legs apart. The other players would form an orderly queue, then take it in turns to peek between your legs, sometimes running a finger across your crinkled bottom hole, and the soft cleft that ran underneath. When each of us had satisfied our curiosity, you would be spanked, six times on the bare by each of us, until you had a rash of pink patches on your bum. I noticed those with spanked bottoms tended to place their pieces much more carefully afterwards. I certainly did.

It wasn’t long before our game of Ups and Downs evolved into something altogether more elaborate, as the dominoes were replaced by role playing. Now we pulled chairs up to the desk where we’d once built our little towers, transforming our games-room into an impromptu classroom. One of us was then elected Teacher, and she set us an assignment to write or draw. 

But Teacher’s assignment wasn’t really the goal of the game, the real objective was to get others into trouble, and how you achieved that was limited only by the deviousness of your imagination. Whilst Teacher’s back was turned we’d pass notes with jokes or exchange pokes and tickles, anything to make a neighbour giggle or squeal. Or there’d be the telling of tales, allegations of copying or pencil theft. It was a game of anything goes.

When Teacher did inevitably spot a transgression, the culprit would be hauled to the front of the class by her ear. She’d be told to stand facing the wall and then, after a delicious pause as her hem was tucked away, be instructed to pull down her panties and put her hands on her head. It was a time well before I had discovered the word erotic, but that moment was always such a thrill. Perhaps it was the authority in our friend’s stage voice, or the expectation of what was coming next.

I vividly remember how, from our ersatz classroom seats, we couldn’t help staring at the unfortunate girl’s newly exposed bottom. Which was silly really, as we all had one, and we’d all seen bare bums countless times before. But something about this was seductively different. Now we were looking at something taboo, something we’d been told we absolutely should not see.

Even though few of us were ever spanked, we’d all grown up vaguely aware of the possibility that, if we were really naughty, our bottoms could be bared and smacked until they were sore. We’d seen it all in comics, how troublemakers got their comeuppance, put over a knee to be spanked by authority’s strict palm, slipper or hairbrush. Now, we were about to subvert the adult world’s ultimate sanction, but in a delicious twist, we’d be doing it for our own entertainment.

There was a little sand-timer on Teacher’s desk, taken from an old board game we never played anymore. Teacher would turn it over, and we’d all look up from the work we should have been doing to see the trickle of sand counting out a minute, grain by grain. Then, when it was all gone, our exposed friend would be told to pull her panties up. Slowly, of course. Whereupon the timer was turned once more, so that a minute later she’d be told to pull her panties down again. 

Finally, after 3 or 4 repetitions, the naughty girl would be sent hobbling towards the toy boxes, her underwear stretched between her ankles, to fetch the implement that would be used to discipline her. We had accumulated quite a collection of rulers, whippy rods, hairbrushes, ping-pong paddles and slippers. 

Meanwhile Teacher sat expectantly in the middle of the room on the designated spanking chair. The girl would hobble back to her, obediently hand over the nominated implement, apologise for her misbehaviour and ask politely for a hard spanking on her bare bottom. It was a request that was always granted. She would then bend over Teacher’s lap and, mindful of our parents downstairs, take her spanking in stoic silence. 

We’d watch all this in rapt fascination, each slow deliberate smack echoing through our minds, as faint pink splotches began to appear on our friend’s pretty little bottom. It was like a shared dream we didn’t want to end, each of us acutely aware that at any moment a call could come from downstairs, and bring a halt to our wonderful game. And yet, there might still be time enough for any one of us to take her place over Teacher’s knee, and to go away with a warm bum of our own, secretly squirming on the back seat during the subsequent car journey home.

Jenny always spanked so hard, she always did like being Teacher.



Jenny’s voice pulls me from my reverie.

“Panties down, Stephanie.”

As the schoolgirl slowly exposes herself again, I’m transfixed, it’s like watching my own memories being vividly brought to life in front of me.

“Why are you standing naked in front of us?” Jenny inquires, for the second time.

I see the girl look up to the ceiling for a moment, as if pondering where her first answer had been insufficient.

“Because I don’t have anything to keep from you Miss”

Jenny seems to consider that a better answer, and nods, scrutinising the girl’s stance, as if verifying the veracity of her claim. She makes a subtle upward motion with her palm, which is the girl’s cue to bend down and pull her panties up again.

“Good girls are absolutely honest before their spankings, aren’t they?”

The girl nods her head in vigorous agreement with her headmistress’s assertion, before Jenny’s palm flutters and she begins to pull her underwear down again.

“Now Stephanie, tell us about what led to this unfortunate kerfuffle.”

“Tess was teasing me, Miss. She said Mr Curle was my secret boyfriend, and that she hoped the whole class would be invited to the wedding.” 

I see her nose wrinkle with disgust at the recollection of that jibe.

“Mr Curle teaches Stephanie and Tess chemistry” explained Jenny, turning to me to provide some clarification. A flutter of her hand prompts the girl to pull her panties up again.

“Are you ready to be absolutely honest, Stephanie?”

“Absolutely Miss” she replies, with an earnestness that suggests she means it.

“Then pull down your panties.” 

When she eventually returns her hands to the top of her head I notice the subtle change in her stance. Her chest is now pushed out more, her nipples more prominent, and her legs are wider apart, her panties now stretched between her ankles.

“Do you masturbate, Stephanie?”

The girl standing before us closes her eyes and bows her head, as if trying to physically deflect the forthright directness of Jenny’s question. I can’t help but look between her open legs, as if searching for my own evidence of self-pleasure within her delicate fleshy folds.

“Yes Miss”, she replies quietly, a blush rapidly filling her cheeks.

“And how often?”

“Almost every night Miss, it helps me go to sleep.”

I smile at the rider she supplies to her answer, it’s so very English to deny the pursuit of pleasure and reframe it as a quest for health and righteousness. Jenny merely flutters her palm upward, and the girl slowly pulls her panties up again.

“Only at night?” asks Jenny.

“Sometimes after school too, Miss” she confesses.

Another prompt, and thirty seconds later her underwear is between her ankles again. Utterly exposed, she awaits the next intimate inquiry from her headmistress.

“How do you masturbate?”

She closes her eyes again, patches of her cheeks now crimson with shame. But something tells me she couldn’t lie now, if even she wanted to.

“I lock my bedroom door and take off what I’m wearing, Miss. I like to play when I’m nude, like I am now.”

I see Jenny nod, encouraging her to continue.

“Then I lie down on my bed and put a few fingers in my mouth. I like to start by tracing wet lines around my nipples, so they tingle as the wet trails cool. Then I begin to rub my boobs, because they remind me I’m a big girl now.”

At Jenny’s signal she pulls her panties up again, then continues her recollection.

“Soon I feel a heat between my legs, so I start to caress myself down there. I rub myself all around, until I’m wet and sticky.”

She hesitates, then sees Jenny’s expression, and continues speaking – quicker now, as if she’d been granted permission to stop censoring herself.

“Then I get the vibrator I keep hidden in my bedside cabinet. At that point I usually put a pillow over myself to muffle the buzz – and because I like to pretend it’s my lover’s body between my thighs. Sometimes I place my vibrator on my clitoris, or even use it to penetrate myself.” 

At that revelation I feel a tinge of regret that I never owned a vibe when I was a schoolgirl. All that joy I missed. Then Stephanie pulls her panties down again, and now I can see lines of sticky goo as her gusset comes away from her pussy lips. I must confess I can feel wetness in my own knickers too.

“Does it feel good to be honest, to stop keeping secrets?” asks Jenny.

“Yes Miss!” the naked girl replies enthusiastically.

“Do you have a crush on Mr Curle?”

“Yes, Miss…” she admits, almost apologetically.

“Do you fantasise about him?”

“Yes Miss.”

“What do you like to imagine?”

“I imagine he can’t take his eyes off me in class, Miss. That I make him hard under his desk. So he asks me to stay behind after class. Then he bends me over one of the benches in the chemistry lab, and he makes me feel amazing.”

My imagination supplies some filthy Interpretations of being made to feel amazing as the girl obediently pulls her panties up.

“Now Stephanie…” Jenny begins, in a different, suddenly serious tone of voice.

“… Mr Curle has already confided in me, and has reported your flirtatious behaviour in his class. It will have to stop, young lady! Mr Curle is thoroughly decent – and married – man. You are here to learn from him, not to seduce him!”

“Yes, Miss”  Stephanie whispers meekly, bowing her head in shame.

Quite unexpectedly, Jenny then stands up and walks from behind her desk to stand in front of the girl. She cups her chin with one hand, not aggressively, but as if she has something very important to say, and wants the girl’s undivided attention.

“I want you to report back to my office at the same time next week, when we shall have a chat about managing your limerence.”

Now that’s not a word one hears very often, I find myself thinking.

“Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss.”

Now Jenny sits down on the piano stool and nods, which turns out to be the cue for her pupil to pull down her panties one last time. Stephanie is now facing Jenny on the stool, with her back to me, so I can see her beautiful round bottom opening as she guides her underwear past her knees. It is immediately obvious how aroused she has become, her intimate lips now puffy and sticky. This time she takes her panties off completely, handing them to Jenny who inspects them without comment, before depositing them on the floor. There is a conspicuous creamy splot on the gusset.

Without being told Stephanie kneels within touching distance of where Jenny is sitting, spreading her knees apart and placing her hands between her legs. Being behind her, I can’t see what she’s doing, so my attention is instead drawn to her as-yet-unmarked bottom, resting on the heels of her dainty feet and her pretty little toes.

“I am so very, very sorry for disappointing you, Miss” she begins, before adding earnestly, “Please may I have a very hard spanking on my bare bottom?”

In response Jenny looks down from her perch, fixing the girl with her gaze. The intensity of their eye contact is emotional – almost unnerving, in fact I begin to feel my own eyes water.

“Why of course you can” Jenny replies, in a warm, almost motherly manner.

And with that Jenny reaches down and hitches up the hem of her own skirt, revealing the bare skin of her thighs. Then she motions her pupil to stand and beckons her forward slightly, jutting out her left knee so it passes between the girl’s open legs. Stephanie bends over without being told, reaching forward until her hands rest on the floor and her feet rise from the ground. The girl emits a long moan as her slick crotch slides across Jenny’s thigh.

Jenny allows the girl to squirm for a few moments, then reaches down to rub her bottom. In the hush that follows I hear my own pulse hammering in my ears. Eventually the long silence is broken by Jenny’s first spank, her open palm slapping down hard at the base of her pupil’s right bottom cheek.

“Ooo! Thank you Miss!” gasps Stephanie.

Jenny spanks slowly and deliberately, and Stephanie takes her punishment in remarkably good grace, frequently thanking her disciplinarian, and exclaiming how much she deserves her spanking.

“Harder please, Miss! I’ve been so naughty.”

Jenny is spanking with her right hand, and is using her left to gather a bunch of the girl’s hair. I notice she tugs it just before every spank, making Stephanie’s back arch, so she pushes out her bottom to receive the incoming palm. Then, when each smack lands, the girl recoils forward onto her spanker’s thigh, which is soon slick with the spanked girl’s juices.

“Ooo! Yes Miss! I deserve this so much.”

Occasionally Jenny pauses to spread the girl’s labia apart, and transfer some of her wetness from the girl’s hole to her own thigh. From my vantage point I can see everything, the bright pink gash between her pinkening cheeks, and the dainty crinkled dimple of her bottom hole. Inside my damp knickers I feel like I have a marble where my clit used to be. I desperately want to rub myself.

In my time, I have given and witnessed many spankings. Often they start slowly, formally, until eventually the recipient begins to squirm and howl as the pain begins to mount. But this restiveness merely prompts their spanker to try to reassert their authority by quickening their slaps until they began to rain down in furious flurries. 

However this spanking was something very different indeed. It was conducted at a slow, almost rhythmic pace. Jenny’s hard precision-placed slaps landing almost exclusively on the lower half of her pupil’s bottom, never quickening or veering off-target. Yet the recipient of this treatment never once writhed or howled; if anything she actually raised her hips, lifting her sore pink bum higher to welcome the incoming smacks.

“Thank you Miss! I’m such a naughty girl.”

The rhythmic beat of the spanking and the girl’s back-and-forth rocking on Jenny’s thigh held me mesmerised. I began to wish it was my turn next, that the girl with the stinging bum and the gaping slit was my partner-in-crime, and soon it would be my turn to go across strict Jenny’s knee for my just deserts. 

I was imagining what that would be like, the knee-trembling mix of anxiety, trepidation and soaking arousal – when suddenly, the spanking stopped. I see Jenny firmly tugging a fistful of her pupil’s hair, literally grabbing her attention.

“Now Stephanie, I want a promise from you. That you won’t ever disappoint me like this again.”

“I promise Miss! I swear I won’t disappoint you again!” she exclaims desperately.

“Promise me you’ll never flirt with a Teacher at this school again.”

“I promise Miss! Never again! Never!”

Her pledge obtained, Jenny tugs the fistful of Stephanie’s hair until her back arches and her hips rise. Then, to my considerable surprise, she slides one of her fingers into the girl’s gaping vagina. Jenny keeps her handy steady, not moving or pumping, just holding it within the girl on her lap as her breathing becomes louder and louder.

“Oh Miss! Thank you! Thank you!”

Stephanie’s mews of pleasure are mixed with expressions of contrition and gratitude for her discipline. Every little tug of her hair causes the girl to rock backwards, pushing out her rear so she can impale herself a little more deeply. All around Jenny’s intruding hand, the girl’s bum glows delightfully pink.

I notice the girl’s gasps begin to escalate, both in volume and in frequency. But then, just when a climax seems certain, Jenny suddenly withdraws her finger and spanks the girl’s proffered bottom a dozen times with a flurry of stinging smacks. The girl on her lap now seems to have lost the power of speech, and merely responds with little ahs and moans.

The spanking stops as surprisingly as it restarted. In one swift movement Jenny places her right hand between the girl’s open legs, her palm facing the floor, I see her fold back her thumb and two smallest fingers, and then she slides the remaining two digits into her pupil’s vagina. She doesn’t pump in and out, but simply holds her fingers in place as the girl’s legs bend at the knees and her feet begin to wave in the air. I notice the tendons on the back of Jenny’s hand are tensing, probably as she massages the girl’s g-spot and grasps her pubic bone.

“Will you be a good little girl for me?” Jenny asks in her most authoritative voice.

And that’s the final straw. The girl’s legs spasm as she climaxes uncontrollably on Jenny’s lap, writhing against her thigh as she tosses her head back and forth, her feet kicking wildly in the air. Her vocabulary has shrunk to a single word: Yes, which she repeats ecstatically with almost every gasping breath, like some yogic mantra.

Jenny leaves her fingers inside her for a few minutes, stroking her hair with her other hand as the aftershocks of her orgasm tremble through her. Slowly her ability to speak returns, and she begins to thank her headmistress profusely. I find myself staring at her bottom, each cheek is now completely pink. It is difficult to believe that someone who has just suffered such a painful chastisement would be so appreciative towards their punisher. And yet, she undoubtedly is.

Stephanie’s legs are still wobbly by the time Jenny helps her off her lap and back onto her feet. She teeters like someone on the deck of a ship at sea until Jenny steadies her, widening the girl’s stance by pushing her legs apart and placing her hands on the seat of the piano stool. 

“A good spanking, wouldn’t you say, Miss Clara?” asks Jenny, who’s performing a fingertip inspection of the girl’s pink globes and everywhere in between. I’m not sure if it’s a rhetorical question, and my mouth is too dry to croak anything other than a guttural mmm-hmm.

Satisfied with what she’s seen, Jenny fetches a box of tissues from her desk and slowly wipes her pupil clean. It takes three tissues to do the job, as Jenny meticulously attends to every fold and crevice between her pupil’s legs. 

After that, Stephanie is encouraged to stand up again, and is given the box of tissues so she can clean up the sticky mess she’d left whilst grinding along her headmistress’s thigh, whilst Jenny holds the hem of her own skirt up at her waist, almost regally. Cleaning the headmistress’s thigh takes two tissues. From my seat I find myself staring at Jenny’s own underwear, taut and shining, her crotch wrapped in an embrace of black silk.

A sixth tissue is then used by Stephanie to wipe her own juices from her headmistress’s fingers. Whereupon Jenny raises her hand expectantly to the girl’s lips, and the naked girl respectfully kisses the hand that disciplined her and the fingers that pleasured her. She kisses with an ardour which – I have to admit – I found extremely erotic.

The kiss seems be the final act of closure. Afterwards, Jenny helps her pupil to get dressed again, fastening her bra and buttoning up her blouse. Thoughtfully, she also wipes the sticky goo from the girl’s ruined panties, before taking a clean tissue and wrapping it around her garment’s damp gusset. She directs her pupil to step into her underwear before carefully pulling it up to her crotch, with some last-minute adjustments so the tissue is positioned comfortably between her tender lips.

Finally, Jenny pulls up and fastens her pupil’s skirt before holding open her blazer for the girl to push her arms into. With that, at last, Stephanie is dressed again, looking just like she did when she knocked nervously on the door almost 40 minutes ago. It seems barely believable that since then, she’s been completely exposed, emotionally and physically, undressed to be as naked as it’s possible to be.

Jenny sends her pupil on her way with a cryptic reminder that she expects a note in her pigeon hole before classes tomorrow. Stephanie nods in understanding and bids us both goodbye, before striding purposefully out of the study, her head held high, a blush on her cheeks and what might even be a smirk on her face. She will be going home with a secret, one I consider myself very privileged to share.

Who would ever suspect that underneath the light grey skirt of this confident, articulate young lady is the bright pink spanked bottom of a naughty little girl?

.

.

.

Continued in Part 2…




@spankingtheatre 2014

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

Reblog this post and share the magic of the written word!

Ups and Downs

A story of appreciation and discipline

I’m standing in disgrace at the front of the class, in a classroom that’s not really a classroom.

I must confess, I didn’t take my assignment seriously. I thought it was all a bit of a giggle. Now here I am, my back to the rest of the class and my dress hitched up above my waist. I can hear my classmates scribbling busily behind me, they’ve been warned that any dawdling and they’ll be dragged up here to join me. Even so, I wonder how many have risked looking up from their pages to sneak a peek at me.

I feel the tremble of approaching footsteps again. I hold my breath, bracing myself for what I know happens next. A single whack from a wooden ruler stings my left bottom cheek. I scrunch my mouth shut, I don’t want to give the class the satisfaction of hearing my discomfort.

Of course, the smack to my bum is more than just chastisement. It’s also my signal. I obediently lift my hands from the top of my head and reach downwards to my sides, my fingers sliding inside my knicker elastic. I bend at my waist, slowly pulling my panties all the way down to my ankles. From bitter experience I know if I attempt to pull down my underwear too quickly, I’ll get a volley of smacks across the backs of my thighs.

So I must pull down my panties slowly… Very… Slowly… And that means lingering in the most shameful position of all. The one where my bare bum juts out towards the class, making my cheeks spread apart, admitting a breeze of cool air that tingles my most intimate parts. For several seconds as I lower my panties down my calves, I can’t help but reveal my bottom hole and the little slit that lies just beneath, and all its secret folds. The moment my panties reach my ankles I leap up, bolt upright, replacing my hands on the top of my head, my face burning, knowing I’ve just exposed my everything.

Behind me, I just know my classmates are surreptitiously looking up from their essays, sneaking sly looks at the pink patches now spreading across my newly exposed flesh. I know this because that’s exactly what I do when others occupy my current position. And then the footsteps recede again, and I’m left alone.

Waiting.

Blushing.

Throbbing.

All too soon I hear the footsteps return. The next whack is on my bare bum, applied to the sore patch now developing on my right bottom cheek. This is my cue to bend down and pull up my panties – slowly of course – allowing all those witnessing my disgrace another good long look between my legs.

My skin is now exquisitely sensitive, I can feel the material of my underwear tickling as it passes up my thighs. Then there’s a moment when my gusset nestles between my intimate lips just before I roll the rest over the tender flesh of my newly spanked bottom. My obligation done, my hands fly back to the top my head, and I wait for the dread thud of approaching footsteps again.

On the next stinging whack, I’ll pull my panties down again.

Whack, up, wait.

Whack, down, wait.

Up and Down. Up and Down.

My slow-motion spanking will continue until the ruler-wielder is satisfied I’ve learned my lesson. Though I must confess, when I’ve watched this exquisite bottom-warming show from the classroom seats: I’ve never wanted it to stop.

Does that make a bad girl?

* * 1 * *

To enter the rambling grounds of Wengrave Hall, all visitors must pass under a timeworn red-brick arch. Verdant moss fills every crevice between its russet blocks, giving the impression of passing through a short tunnel of lush green velvet, that those who enter are somehow leaving the outside world behind. It’s not until the end of the tunnel that I finally catch my first glimpse of the grand old Elizabethan edifice beyond.

Wengrave Hall is a grand concerto in brickwork, a composition of rusty reds and sandy whites, a rhythm of faux ramparts rising to thrilling crescendos of elaborate brick chimney-stacks and ornamental domed turrets. It’s like stepping back in time, to a bygone world of carriages, intrigues, ruffs and codpieces.

The path that takes me from under the arch is paved by rounded granite slabs, each deliberately placed so patches of grass can grow between them. The effect is to create a sweep of stepping stones, each becoming progressively smaller to the eye as they ascend the grassy slope to the Hall in a gentle curve.

Not that the grounds are over-managed, the sea of green that dances in the breeze all around me is more meadow than lawn, with splashes of colour from clusters of daisies and buttercups. It takes me several minutes to reach the building’s entrance, a domineering two-storey gatehouse that wouldn’t look out of place at the front of castle, its massive stone archway flanked by two turreted towers.

This is my first visit to the Hall, but Jenny has told me all about it. From what I remember reading, this grand Elizabethan manor was built on the site of an old priory that was ultimately dissolved by the edicts of Henry the Eighth. After that, the monks gave way to aristocrats, whose lavish lifestyles over the next hundred years accumulated debts that ultimately proved their undoing. A century of upheaval and disrepair followed, until a new owner rescued it from decrepitude.

I think I’m right in saying that Jonah Snow, the man who bought and restored the Hall, was a self-made man. Mister Snow was New Money, one of an emerging  generation of traders, investors and entrepreneurs, and one who had little interest in ingratiating himself into the upper classes. He seemed to despise the privilege of inherited wealth, believing instead in the power of education and self-improvement. Perhaps this was what motivated him in his later years, as the shadow of his own mortality began to loom, because he transformed the Hall from a stately home into a college, bequeathing the property and the funds to sustain the school to a trust.

Now, over two centuries later, the venerable institution of Wengrave Hall continues his legacy as a prestigious private girls’ school. But the Hall is not a place for the privileged few. Still funded from Snow’s original bequest, it does not charge fees, and so continues to admit students from every social background. In his will, the founder stipulated only two requirements for prospective students: one was a commitment to academic excellence, an undertaking that each pupil would strive for greatness commensurate with their talents. The other was the understanding that if any ever fell short of these exceedingly high expectations, they would be spanked.

The gatehouse arch opens into a verdant quadrangle, criss-crossed by paved paths and fringed by red rose bushes. Several girls in light grey marl blazers ghost past me, their footsteps barely audible, greeting me with respectful nods and welcoming smiles. Near the central fountain I spot a taller figure in darker clothes surveying the scene. Though I haven’t seen her for years, this woman is unmistakable. Then she recognises me too, her face suddenly illuminated by a huge smile. She begins to stride forward as quickly as decorum allows, until a couple of paces away she throws open her arms in an enthusiastic welcoming embrace.

“Clara Tayborn! Goodness me!” she exclaims breathlessly.

“Jenny White! My old friend!” I wheeze, as the contents of my lungs are squeezed out by her enthusiastic hug.

The joy in her welcome is infectious, so by the time our embrace ends I find myself beaming from ear to ear too. I am genuinely glad to see her again, it’s been much too long. Once we were the best of friends, until our school days ended and circumstances conspired to separate us.

Instinctively, we both take a step back to scrutinise each other, taking in the unspoken stories imparted by our appearances. Jenny’s hair is shorter than I recall, now styled into a coal-black bob. She’s wearing a tailored dark navy jacket cut in to flatter her enviable waist, a matching skirt that extends to her knee, and dark leather flat-soled ballet pumps. She seems less flamboyant and more sensible than I remember her. Then again, that was before she became the Headmistress of Wengrave Hall.

And then I feel a tug on my hand, and she’s leading me somewhere. Just like she always did.

* * *

Our conversation is accompanied by the clink of fine china teacups.

From the quad I took Clara to my study, where we spent the afternoon excitedly chatting, like the teenagers we once were. After all, we had almost a decade of stories to tell, our times at our respective universities, far-flung holidays, the drama of new jobs, the joys and disappointments of relationships – tales of the landmarks we encounter along life’s twisting journey.

Clara plays with her hair as she talks, every now and then running a hand down the back of her neck, sweeping her straight sand-coloured hair from one shoulder to the other. She’s more demure than I remember, with less warpaint on her pretty gamine face.

After graduating, it seemed Clara had begun working in the Middle East as a private tutor to some oil-rich family. But though her job had been financially lucrative, there was only so long one could tolerate life in a desert, no matter how good the air-conditioning and swimming pools. So she had returned to England last year, becoming the governess for a family just outside London. That made us chuckle: that we, the original hellraisers, should now both be in charge of the discipline of others.

“This is a beautiful place,” Clara comments, “and your girls seem incredibly well-behaved. Most schools I’ve visited are a hubbub of shrieks, shouting and running around – like several small fires have just broken out on the premises.”

“We do strive to create an urbane, respectful atmosphere here” I acknowledge.

“So, what’s your secret?” she asks, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

I hesitate, scanning my old friend’s face for a few moments, assessing whether I should really tell her the truth – or just waffle some perfunctory truisms. Yes. I can see the earnestness in her eyes, because we both know discipline is the real reason we’re both sitting here together today.

It had all begun a couple of weeks ago with a chime that signaled the arrival of a new text message. It had been ages since I’d heard from Clara, I knew from Facebook that she’d recently returned home, but we were several hours travel apart, and hadn’t been in touch. It sounds terrible when put like that, when we used to be such good friends. Were we really too busy to find time for each other?

So we exchanged the usual short-form smalltalk, a few how-are-you, so-lovely-to-hear-from-you messages. And then, to my surprise, Clara called me. We chatted about old times and our latest news. It wasn’t long before the real reason behind her sudden communication transpired. Clara had a problem.

I lower my teacup to the saucer on the little table between us and fix her with my gaze. I want to look into her big blue eyes, to see just how she reacts.

“My secret is good old-fashioned spankings on the bare bottom.”

Clara’s eyes widen. I don’t think she’s shocked, perhaps just a bit taken aback by my bluntness. After all, she knows me, intimate things few others know. I’m sure that’s why she contacted me in the first place.

“But that’s exactly how I discipline the girls, and…”

“Then you must be doing it wrong.” I interrupt, my friendly chatty tone replaced by something more formal, more authoritative.

The two girls are Clara’s new charges, she has previously described them to me as spoilt, rude, impetuous and unruly to the point of delinquency. But they sound just like typical teenagers to me. Clearly there was an absence of respect in their household, so I was rather surprised when Clara admitted to using corporal punishment. Not that there’s anything wrong with correcting the wayward through bottom-smacking. But there’s an art to applying it, a craft that has nothing at all to do with inflicting pink patches on the bum, but creating an impact in a quite different region of the body altogether.

Clara looks rather crestfallen at my implied criticism. She knows she’s losing control, failing those she’s supposed to be looking after. There is a pregnant silence.

“Come visit me, Jenny!” she implores. “Meet the girls, tell me how to put things right.”

“Of course I will” I reply, reaching across the teacups to grasp her hand reassuringly.

And then I changed the subject. It wasn’t long before the smile had returned to my old friend’s face.

* * 2 * *

I’m on my way to witness a spanking. Of course, I’m no stranger to seeing bottoms smacked, but as I get closer I can physically feel my anticipation, my breathing quickening, the dampness of my palm, and the sheen of sweat I’m leaving on the bulbous knob of my gearstick.

I recognised Clara’s voice over the intercom. Through the modern marvel of sat-nav I found her new abode quite easily, despite it being hidden in secluded corner of the Chiltern countryside. Access to their drive was blocked by a security gate of thick black iron railings that looked like they belonged alongside a moat and a drawbridge. Watching them clunk and rattle backwards after Clara had buzzed me in got me thinking: how funny that so many ancient objects still endure in modern-day guises. Two thousand years on, and we still feel the need to secure our domains from outlaws, and we still haven’t invented anything better than iron gates. And we’re still correcting naughty bottoms with slaps from slats of wood and strips of leather.

Beyond the gate there’s a short drive to the mansion, a private tarmac road that winds around two tree-lined bends before the building itself comes into view. Large undecorated columns dominate the facade, with large full-height lantern windows in between. It looks Palladian, or a perhaps a contemporary architect’s imagining of what a Georgian stately home should be.

The front of the house is fringed by a wide sandstone terrace, with steps leading down to the gardens. So the driveway doesn’t go as far as the main porch, but curves off about twenty metres from the house, finishing at a row of garages and a small sunken parking area. Somewhat shyly, I park beside Clara’s electric blue hatchback, rather than beside the blood-red Mercedes roadster or the obsidian black BMW saloon. Clara has told me her employers moved here from Hong Kong, and despite the presence of their vehicles here, they’re apparently on one of their regular trips abroad right now.

I’m here because of a phone call, which I received several days after Clara visited me at the Hall. Clara had sounded angry and exasperated – trouble with one of her girls again it seemed, and she had repeated her earlier invitation. I had told her I’d be happy to visit, and so we’d made arrangements, I’d travel down on Friday evening and stay the night.

There’s a scurry of approaching feet as Clara jogs from the porch to welcome me, almost knocking me backwards with her enthusiastic embrace. After exchanging our so-lovely-to-see-you’s she escorts me into the house and up the grand main staircase to one of the guest bedrooms, where I unpack my overnight bag and refresh myself.

When I rejoin Clara downstairs she takes me on a brief tour of the house. We start in the plushly furnished living room, where two young ladies are sitting side by side on the sofa. Both wear their hair casually, tied back in a single pony-tails, but each is in a startlingly different state of attire. The younger-looking girl is dressed in black skinny jeans and a thin slouchy grey-flecked cardigan, whereas the elder-looking girl is wearing just a pale blue pyjamas.

“Girls. I want you to meet my friend Jenny White, she’ll be staying with us tonight.”

“This is Lei…” says Clara, nodding to the younger girl, who looks up from her iPad to nod back respectfully. I recognise just a trace of a Chinese accent in her hello, now probably anglicised by years of home-counties private schooling.

“And this is Xiu…”

Clara pronounces her name like an abrupt yet dainty sneeze. She doesn’t need to explain why the girl is already dressed for bed in the middle of the evening, and the teenager doesn’t bother to speak or even acknowledge me, she merely keeps her arms folded and stares sullenly at the shaggy carpet between her feet.

Perhaps not surprisingly, given the agenda for evening, the atmosphere in the living room was uncomfortably frosty, so after a cursory glance to its four corners we leave the girls to continue my tour of the house. It is immaculately decorated, an eye-catching fusion of oriental ambience and old English country home. It is also impressively vacuous, room after room all lying empty, as if the house was hibernating, awaiting the arrival of a crowd of guests to give it purpose.

My tour ends in a large conservatory, topped by a sloping roof of wide glass panels through which I can stare into the dark-blue dusky skies beyond. One side overlooks the gardens below, jutting forward like the prow of a ship mastering the waves.

The interior space is arranged as conservatories often are, fringed with rows of large ferns and palms in giant terracotta pots, and several chairs and couches made of bamboo cane, with an open space unoccupied in the centre. It’s not completely empty though, a single waist high piece of furniture stands alone, spot lit by the room’s downlights. It looks suspiciously like a spanking bench. I must not have disguised my fascination well enough, I think I see a smirk on Clara’s face.

Clara says nothing of the eye-catching object, and merely suggests I sit whilst she goes to make some tea. Her absence gives me an opportunity to investigate this tantalising item further. The bench is made of rosy brown wood, but is quite unlike any other I’ve seen. Most benches have right-angled frames, a pair of vertical legs rising to meet the horizontal crossbeams, but the legs of this beauty are two perfect arches, two thick beams expertly bent in the middle. Each end is almost vertical where they touch the floor, curving slowly as they ascend, then bending sharply as they reach their apex. Their peak is reminiscent of a gothic arch, or a lady’s most intimate entrance.

The whole bench is just wider than a shoulder width, with a rounded mound of smooth chamois leather between the tops of each arch, perfectly crafted to be flush with the curves of the frame. The bench has no means of adjusting its height, as if it just is what it is – but there are little hollows carved into the back of each arched beam that I deduce will accommodate the toes of all manner of miscreants, tall and small. To the side of each hole is a discreet rounded wooden peg, onto which fits a short thick leather band, a heel strap to keep its occupant in place.

The legs of each arch are beautifully carved, covered in elaborate filigree arabesques, repeating geometric patterns of dazzling complexity. It seems my old friend brought back an extraordinary memento from Arabia, I can just imagine her exploring the furthest corners of some ancient desert souk. It’s an artefact of such bewildering splendor and uniqueness that I begin to wonder if Clara also brought back a magic carpet too.

I’m still gawking at the bench when Clara returns with a tray of tea and some morsels to eat. She recognises my expression and smiles proudly.

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

* * *

As we drain the last drops of tea from our cups, there’s a moment of tense silence, we both know it’s time.

As we’d sipped, Clara had regaled me with tales of her various trials and tribulations, her attempts to corral her spoilt, rebellious charges. Though to me it seemed both girls just possessed a fierce independence, and I wonder if that was a result of being brought up by a succession of au pairs, childminders and governesses rather than their own jetsetting parents. Without the continuity of discipline from their own mum and dad, I suspect they’d become experts at pushing the boundaries of every new carer, searching for blind-spots and exploiting their weaknesses.

The current bone of contention was a curfew. Xiu was now old enough to drive, and seemed to be enjoying spreading her wings. Clara had mandated Xiu had to be back at home before midnight, like some modern-day Cinderella. The problem was Xiu’s friends ran a very busy social life, and the good parties didn’t really get going until well past midnight. This hedonistic frivolousness had horrified her workaholic parents, and Clara had been instructed to intercede. So an ultimatum had been issued: stay out late – get spanked. I suspect the teenager secretly reckons it’s a pretty reasonable deal.

Clara stands and leaves the room, and I hear her footsteps recede upstairs, a few minutes later I hear her descend, and then there’s the sound of raised voices in the distance. When she returns to the conservatory Xiu is just in front of her. The teenager’s gait is forced and her expression indignant, as if Clara is shooing a reluctant animal to market. It’s not an unreasonable metaphor actually, as I notice Clara is holding some kind of some whip, a light-coloured riding crop.

Xiu harrumphs when she sees me present, muttering sarcastically, “Enjoy the show.”

With her free hand Clara takes hold of Xiu’s wrist and tugs her until she’s standing behind the bench. She does not stand on ceremony, immediately reaching down to the girl’s waist and rapidly untying the drawstring of her pyjama bottoms. They slip to the ground moments later, she is not wearing anything underneath.

There’s a pause as we wait for Xiu to bend over the bench, but she stands her ground defiantly until Clara gives her a smack of encouragement on her bare bottom. That provokes a tetchy yelp. Only then does the girl step forward to the bench, putting her right foot into the second lowest foothole, and then her left foot into the next highest hole on the other side, before moving her right foot to the hole above too. Xiu repeats this motion, like she’s climbing a miniature ladder, until she’s high enough that she can bend over the curved cushion at the top of the bench.

Clara reaches down to attach the straps across the back of Xiu’s heels, I notice they were already attached to the little pegs three holes up. Likewise the straps Clara uses to secure her wrists are in just the right place. From these clues I deduce the bench’s present occupant must be a regular visitor.

Clara positions herself behind the girl and levels her crop across the lower side of Xiu’s bare cheeks, tapping several times to claim her audience’s attention.

“You know you’re not allowed to stay out late, and what the consequences are” sighs Clara, in a manner that suggests that she’s given this pre-disciplinary speech too many times to put any more effort into it.

“Stupid rule…” Xiu mutters into the floor, “You don’t understand.”

Her cheeky riposte earns her a first whack to her bottom. The crop Clara wields is as long as her forearm, a thin stem tipped by a rounded tongue of sand-coloured leather. The stem seems to have Arabic writing inscribed on it, no doubt another souvenir from her Middle Eastern adventure. I have a ringside seat for this performance, close enough to see the think pink line and small round blush the crop leaves each time it smacks across the girl’s bare bum.

Clara moves her arm slightly, positioning the tip of the crop elsewhere on Xiu’s bottom. She spanks with little backswing, accurately placing her blows all across her target’s helpless cheeks. Xiu flinches, yelps and squirms in response to every smack, I can hear the leather of the restraints squeak, but never a creak from the spanking bench, it seems absolutely resolute, perfectly crafted.

The sting in her cheeks seems to have loosened Xiu’s tongue, she begins to talk back, vacillating between pleas that she’s had quite enough now, and florid accusations of unfairness, vindictiveness and cruelty. But despite both her buttocks now being quite pink all over, I sense little evidence that she’s learning anything constructive from the discipline that Clara is providing. She’s still just as tetchy, just as resentful, only now she has a burning backside too.

Clara is raising her crop higher now, spanking ever more vigorously. The bench is expertly designed, its angles stretching the limbs of its occupant so their buttocks splay apart, revealing the intimate triangle in between. In my experience most girls become aroused during a spanking, whether they like it or not, but I can see Xiu isn’t excited in the slightest. The thin line between her legs shut tight in protest.

Perhaps aware her childish protests were fallen on deaf ears, Xiu has now stopped talking. Now she greets each spank with a stifled yowl, as if determined not to reveal how much it hurts. She maintains her composure admirably, refusing to give in and shriek or sob, even as the last volley of hard whacks shudder against her tender skin.

And then there is silence. I notice all three of us are breathing heavily, each for very different reasons.

Clara lowers her whip and lets Xiu lie over the bench for a few minutes. As I survey the girl’s rosy cheeks, I can’t help but notice her little clenched fists.

Eventually Clara unfastens the restraints and helps Xiu down from the bench. The girl says nothing upon dismounting, but merely fixes her governess with a look of seething anger. She snatches her pyjama bottoms off the floor and pulls them rapidly up and over her sore pink cheeks, before storming out of the conservatory and stomping upstairs. Moments later, in the far distance, I hear a door slamming.

At the time I held my peace and said nothing, but I was already thinking that Clara might herself benefit from a bit of private tuition. Not in the Art of Bottom Smacking, in which she seems eminently qualified, but the gentle Art of Persuasion instead.

* * *

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Perhaps it was the unfamiliar bed, or mentally replaying what I’d witnessed earlier. It was as if I had unfinished business downstairs, that something was calling me, luring me. Eventually, I had to give in to my curiosity. I put on a nightshirt and creep like a cat burglar down the stairs, stepping through patches of ambient moonlight.

Inevitably, I find myself in the conservatory again. The glass ceiling is now inky black, sprinkled with a dust of twinkling stars. The night sky has always mesmerised me, the ultimate masterpiece of pointillism, epic on a scale that staggers the mind. Beneath the stellar canopy, the spanking bench dominates the space, glowing in a shaft of silvery moonlight.

Something makes me take off my nightshirt, and I drop it absent-mindedly to the floor. Naked, I approach the bench as a naughty girl might, its looming presence growing until it completely dominates my field of vision. Over the centuries, how many have made this walk? How many for punishment and how many for pleasure?

When I put my toes into the lowest footholes, I’m pleasantly surprised to discover each seems to be lined with soft felt, like I’m slipping on a pair of particularly snug slippers. I linger a while, and then climb a few steps higher until I’m able to bend over the top and reach down to the other side.

Below me the bench is absolutely steadfast, never moving, as if I were bending over a granite boulder. I sense its perfect solidity, how its shape holds me in a tight embrace, stretching my hamstrings, forming my buttocks into perfect mounds, parting my legs to reveal all my secrets.

I find myself longing for someone to discover me, to tighten the straps around my wrists and my heels. To render me helpless – and then as I struggle in vain – to give me what naughty girls get. I can feel the cool night air tickling my moistening slit.

With my head bowed I notice for the first time a hidden panel in one of the arches, it’s positioned so only the one bending over the bench can see it, and even then, only when I hold my head at the right angle. In the dimness, a shiny cursive script glints in the moonlight, like a magic spell or a druid’s incantation. How unexpectedly intriguing.

Bent over, I’m unable to touch myself, so I use the footholes to climb a little higher, until I can swing a leg over and straddle it. The top surface of bench is narrow, only a couple of fingers wide. I lift my feet, pulling them up and back until the tops of my toes rest on the upper leather surface, then adjust my balance, so my kneecaps are pointing at the ground, and all my weight is forced onto my crotch. I gasp as my descent pulls my slick lips apart.

With my feet off the floor I had to shift my weight back and forth to grind myself against the soft leather ridge. Yet despite all my vigorous exertions, not a creak comes from the bench, its craftsmanship is truly exceptional.

Seated in this position I’m unable to put my fingers into my cunt, but that just makes my clit even needier. So I work it with a fingertip, then bite my forearm, moaning my pleasure into my own flesh in an attempt to avoid waking the house. I climax imagining what Xiu might have done just before going to sleep, rubbing her own spanked cheeks until she was soaked, and then impaling herself on her fingers.

Everything after that was a bit of a daze. I remember just about being able to dismount from the bench onto my wobbly legs, and wiping the sticky evidence of my naughty nocturnal adventure from the top of the bench with my nightshirt. When I eventually did sneak back into my bedroom, I fell into a deep and contented sleep.

Later that morning, I made a detour via the conservatory before meeting Clara in the kitchen for breakfast, to surreptitiously snap a few souvenir photos of her marvellous spanking bench on my phone. Naturally, I made sure to capture a close-up of that curious hidden message too.

After breakfast, we went for an amble into the surrounding countryside, through a beautiful bluebell wood and up into the rolling Chiltern Hills. It was a gloriously warm spring day, a pale blue sky filled by cotton-wool clouds. We had a picnic lunch sitting on treestumps, chatting easily as sparrows and finches chirped excitedly in the hedgerows, and the occasional red kite glided lazily overhead.

We continued talking all the way back to the house. With every passing hour I spent in Clara’s company, my regret at not keeping in touch with my old friend deepened. Once we’d been so close, how could we had let something that precious drift away? I felt a lump in my throat when we hugged and said goodbye. But this time, each of us earnestly vowed to meet again soon.

* * 3 * *

So, here I am again, at Wengrave Hall. This peculiar bubble of old-fashioned gentility hidden in the heart of the English countryside. This time though, I’m here at Jenny’s instigation. She rang me a few days ago, earlier that day it seems an ‘incident’ had occurred, and she invited me to return to the school to witness the ‘consequences’. I suspect here Jenny was just being tactful, and that ‘consequences’ are a euphemism for ‘good old-fashioned spankings on the bare bottom’. I’m about to find out.

I’m with Jenny in her study, a large comfortably furnished room of ceiling high bookcases, long-pile carpets and soft furnishings. I’m sitting on one of its two elegant sofas, with Jenny sitting to my left, behind a huge treacle-coloured wooden desk. Behind her, golden late afternoon light streams through two full-length bay windows, making her edges glow, as if she’s an apparition of a goddess in a temple. The same light glints off the clock on the far wall, its thick brass rim gleaming like an oversized wedding ring. The bell heralding the end of the school day rang 7 minutes ago, and now we’re both awaiting a knock on the door.

“So… is this a regular occurrence?”

I ask as casually as I can manage. But inside, my tummy is fluttering.

“Actually, no” Jenny confided, before clarifying.

“Most spankings tend to occur at the beginning of terms, when the girls return, still rather boisterous from their holidays. They can slip back into bad habits, you see. But a smacked bottom and a good talking-to is typically enough to ensure several more months of impeccable behaviour. It’s rare I need to correct a girl this late in the term.”

As if to emphasise her point I see her gaze wander into the middle of the room, to the sturdy black piano stool that wasn’t there during my previous visit. The stool’s matte finish and top cushion of coal-black leather seem to be the only object in the room not glowing in the strong sunlight. It’s a dark, ominous presence in our midst, a magnet for an idle mind, a psychological black hole absorbing incident light. There is no accompanying piano.

As our conversation lulls my mind races, imagining all the different ways a girl could be punished across this sinister stool.

Bent over, elbows and toes on the floor.

Bottom raised high for a good caning.

Skirt up. Panties down.

Swick! Swick! Swick!

And thin pink lines glow across her cheeks.

Or perhaps Jenny will sit on the stool herself.

A finger beckoning the miscreant towards her lap.

She’d reach under her hem, tugging down her underwear.

Before grabbing the girl’s wrist and dragging her over her lap.

Then she’d lift her skirt.

Scolding her as she rubbed her paddle across her bare bum.

Or maybe Jenny is more inventive.

Lie on the stool, girl. On your back please.

Now lift your feet high into the air.

She’d pull her panties up, rather than pull them down.

A forearm behind the ankles to keep her in position.

As the strap in her other hand cruelly slaps her bum and thighs…

Three short knocks on the door abruptly interrupt my daydreaming.

“Enter!” calls Jenny.

I take a couple of deep breaths and hope I don’t appear too flustered.

A teenage girl enters almost apologetically, as if she’s the bearer of some depressingly bad news. Her appearance is immaculately smart, a creaseless white blouse beneath her grey marl blazer, a perfect windsor knot in her thin blue and white striped tie. Her shoulder-length chestnut-brown hair is equally tidy, it shines in the sunlight, I think she may have just come from brushing it.

“Ah, Stephanie!”, announces Jenny, welcoming her in a manner good deal warmer than I’d expected.

“Good Afternoon, Miss”, Stephanie replies, her eyes momentarily flicking over to me, uncertain of whether she should acknowledge me as well.

“This is Miss Clara…” explains Jenny.

“She’s a governess, and is here to see what happens to naughty girls at our school. Perhaps you’d like to explain what brings you here?”

“Of course, Miss”, Stephanie says, tentatively turning to face me.

“Good Afternoon, Miss Clara”

I see her pause and take a deep breath, composing herself.

“I’m here because on Tuesday afternoon I slapped Tess after she’d said some very hurtful things.”

There’s another pause as she swallows audibly, before she turns back to face her headmistress.

“I’m very sorry about what happened, Miss. I know it was very wrong for me to react that way.”

“I should think so, Stephanie!” Jenny interjects.

“The girls of Wengrave Hall should be sisters, not pugilists who settle disputes with their fists. I expect better from you.”

“Yes Miss”, croaks the girl, who looks crestfallen.

“So, what do you think the consequences of your misbehaviour should be?”

The pupil pauses, swallowing conspicuously.

“I deserve a good hard spanking on my bare bottom, Miss.”

The girl turns to face me again, looking into my eyes.

“I’m sorry you’ll have to witness my punishment, Miss Clara. I hope you won’t be offended.”

My tongue feels dry, I realise my mouth is slightly open, I close it as subtly as I can. The girl swivels to face her headmistress again.

“May I have permission to undress, Miss?”

Did I hear that?

My friend nods, “Yes, you may.”

With that, the girl turns to the empty sofa and takes off her blazer, laying it respectfully on the sofa seat. Next, she loosens her tie, pulling it apart until it’s just a long length of stripy fabric. Jenny and I watch in silence as she unbuttons her blouse, folding it neatly on top of her blazer. Underneath, I can see her white bra, a plain white garment with discreet lace edging, moments later she has reached behind herself and unclipped it, baring the small round mounds of her chest.

Goodness, I find myself thinking, this is an unexpected twist.

Without pausing she reaches down to untie and remove her shoes, before peeling off her light grey ankle socks. A brief fiddle at her waist to unbutton her skirt, and it slides silently down her thighs before being neatly folded and laid out with all her other clothes. She had disrobed with remarkable alacrity, it must have taken her no more than a minute.

Now she’s standing before us in just her plain white panties, which have the look of  school-regulation underwear, modestly covering the whole of her buttocks and the tops of her thighs. Her final act is to place her hands on her head, standing bolt upright in silence, as if waiting the Headmistress’s verdict.

I pull my gaze away from the middle of the room and look left to Jenny. She is almost expressionless, perhaps just a slight furrow in her brow, as if the girl before us was some kind of conundrum to solve. I try to look with new eyes, to look beyond the near-nakedness of the girl’s slender figure, to try to scrutinise her as Jenny is doing. Perhaps she is evaluating the girl’s body language: how sorry is she, really? Is her mind truly ready to accept her discipline, or is she secretly resentful, and merely going through the motions?

In the silence, the sexual tension is palpable. Then Jenny speaks.

“Pull down your panties, Stephanie.”

I hear myself swallow loudly.

Without pleading for a reprieve, Stephanie slips her fingertips into the waistband of her underwear and begins to tug it over her hips. Her mound is exposed first, shaved perfectly bare, then the little fleshy contours of her slit. She pulls the garment down her thighs slowly and deliberately, leaning over as it approaches her knees, facing the floor by the time she’s lowered her panties to the floor. Then she straightens up and replaces her hands on her head.

A distant memory makes my tummy flip, I can feel my heart pounding in my chest.

“Why are you standing in front of us naked, Stephanie?” asks Jenny.

“Because I’ve been a naughty girl, Miss. And I deserve a good spanking on my bare bottom.”

The three of us wait in silence. This is quite unlike any prelude to a spanking I’ve ever seen. After about 30 seconds, Jenny speaks again.

“Panties up.”

The girl complies immediately, bending over and drawing her underwear upwards at the same unhurried pace as when she’d pulled it down.

Oh yes, I remember this.

* * *

I can’t remember exactly who invented the game. I think it just evolved from our furtive explorations, during a time when my girlfriends and I were young and curious. It must have been after that age when our parents had taught us to be ashamed, that nudity wasn’t decent or proper, and there was one particular region of our bodies that was especially dirty, a naughty place that should never, ever, be revealed. So naturally, when we were playing upstairs undisturbed, and our parents were lounging in the garden, drinking and chatting, it was inevitable we’d try to discover what the fuss was all about.

I think it began as a forfeit. We had a wooden block game, some kind of vertical dominoes, and my girlfriends and I would all stand around a table and take it in turns to slot in a domino piece, gradually establishing an eccentric tower of blocks. The game was won by the player who managed to place all their dominoes, the challenge was avoiding collapsing our shared construction as it grew taller. But these games rarely produced a winner, our shaky hands and poor architectural planning regularly conspiring to topple the tower, forcing us all to start again.

Growing frustration almost made us abandon the game, until one of us had a bright idea: if you were responsible for the tower coming down, your panties had to come down too. Thus the loser would play the next game with her panties bunched around her ankles, and her skirt or dress rolled up above the waist.

This arrangement was carefully conceived, allowing whoever was exposed to quickly regain her modesty should adult footsteps be heard ascending the stairs to our playroom. Then, if someone else was responsible for toppling the tower in the next game, you got to pull up your panties and she had to pull down hers instead. And so the game came to be known as Ups and Downs.

It wasn’t long before we added an additional jeopardy. If you were responsible for toppling the tower twice in a row, your panties would be already down. So it was agreed that the culprit would have to face an additional forfeit, bending over with your legs apart. The other players would form an orderly queue, then take it in turns to peek between your legs, sometimes running a finger across your crinkled bottom hole, and the soft cleft that ran underneath. When each of us had satisfied our curiosity, you would be spanked, six times on the bare by each of us, until you had a rash of pink patches on your bum. I noticed those with spanked bottoms tended to place their pieces much more carefully afterwards. I certainly did.

It wasn’t long before our game of Ups and Downs evolved into something altogether more elaborate, as the dominoes were replaced by role playing. Now we pulled chairs up to the desk where we’d once built our little towers, transforming our games-room into an impromptu classroom. One of us was then elected Teacher, and she set us an assignment to write or draw.

But Teacher’s assignment wasn’t really the goal of the game, the real objective was to get others into trouble, and how you achieved that was limited only by the deviousness of your imagination. Whilst Teacher’s back was turned we’d pass notes with jokes or exchange pokes and tickles, anything to make a neighbour giggle or squeal. Or there’d be the telling of tales, allegations of copying or pencil theft. It was a game of anything goes.

When Teacher did inevitably spot a transgression, the culprit would be hauled to the front of the class by her ear. She’d be told to stand facing the wall and then, after a delicious pause as her hem was tucked away, be instructed to pull down her panties and put her hands on her head. It was a time well before I had discovered the word erotic, but that moment was always such a thrill. Perhaps it was the authority in our friend’s stage voice, or the expectation of what was coming next.

I vividly remember how, from our ersatz classroom seats, we couldn’t help staring at the unfortunate girl’s newly exposed bottom. Which was silly really, as we all had one, and we’d all seen bare bums countless times before. But something about this was seductively different. Now we were looking at something taboo, something we’d been told we absolutely should not see.

Even though few of us were ever spanked, we’d all grown up vaguely aware of the possibility that, if we were really naughty, our bottoms could be bared and smacked until they were sore. We’d seen it all in comics, how troublemakers got their comeuppance, put over a knee to be spanked by authority’s strict palm, slipper or hairbrush. Now, we were about to subvert the adult world’s ultimate sanction, but in a delicious twist, we’d be doing it for our own entertainment.

There was a little sand-timer on Teacher’s desk, taken from an old board game we never played anymore. Teacher would turn it over, and we’d all look up from the work we should have been doing to see the trickle of sand counting out a minute, grain by grain. Then, when it was all gone, our exposed friend would be told to pull her panties up. Slowly, of course. Whereupon the timer was turned once more, so that a minute later she’d be told to pull her panties down again.

Finally, after 3 or 4 repetitions, the naughty girl would be sent hobbling towards the toy boxes, her underwear stretched between her ankles, to fetch the implement that would be used to discipline her. We had accumulated quite a collection of rulers, whippy rods, hairbrushes, ping-pong paddles and slippers.

Meanwhile Teacher sat expectantly in the middle of the room on the designated spanking chair. The girl would hobble back to her, obediently hand over the nominated implement, apologise for her misbehaviour and ask politely for a hard spanking on her bare bottom. It was a request that was always granted. She would then bend over Teacher’s lap and, mindful of our parents downstairs, take her spanking in stoic silence.

We’d watch all this in rapt fascination, each slow deliberate smack echoing through our minds, as faint pink splotches began to appear on our friend’s pretty little bottom. It was like a shared dream we didn’t want to end, each of us acutely aware that at any moment a call could come from downstairs, and bring a halt to our wonderful game. And yet, there might still be time enough for any one of us to take her place over Teacher’s knee, and to go away with a warm bum of our own, secretly squirming on the back seat during the subsequent car journey home.

Jenny always spanked so hard, she always did like being Teacher.

* * *

Jenny’s voice pulls me from my reverie.

“Panties down, Stephanie.”

As the schoolgirl slowly exposes herself again, I’m transfixed, it’s like watching my own memories being vividly brought to life in front of me.

“Why are you standing naked in front of us?” Jenny inquires, for the second time.

I see the girl look up to the ceiling for a moment, as if pondering where her first answer had been insufficient.

“Because I don’t have anything to keep from you Miss”

Jenny seems to consider that a better answer, and nods, scrutinising the girl’s stance, as if verifying the veracity of her claim. She makes a subtle upward motion with her palm, which is the girl’s cue to bend down and pull her panties up again.

“Good girls are absolutely honest before their spankings, aren’t they?”

The girl nods her head in vigorous agreement with her headmistress’s assertion, before Jenny’s palm flutters and she begins to pull her underwear down again.

“Now Stephanie, tell us about what led to this unfortunate kerfuffle.”

“Tess was teasing me, Miss. She said Mr Curle was my secret boyfriend, and that she hoped the whole class would be invited to the wedding.”

I see her nose wrinkle with disgust at the recollection of that jibe.

“Mr Curle teaches Stephanie and Tess chemistry” explained Jenny, turning to me to provide some clarification. A flutter of her hand prompts the girl to pull her panties up again.

“Are you ready to be absolutely honest, Stephanie?”

“Absolutely Miss” she replies, with an earnestness that suggests she means it.

“Then pull down your panties.”

When she eventually returns her hands to the top of her head I notice the subtle change in her stance. Her chest is now pushed out more, her nipples more prominent, and her legs are wider apart, her panties now stretched between her ankles.

“Do you masturbate, Stephanie?”

The girl standing before us closes her eyes and bows her head, as if trying to physically deflect the forthright directness of Jenny’s question. I can’t help but look between her open legs, as if searching for my own evidence of self-pleasure within her delicate fleshy folds.

“Yes Miss”, she replies quietly, a blush rapidly filling her cheeks.

“And how often?”

“Almost every night Miss, it helps me go to sleep.”

I smile at the rider she supplies to her answer, it’s so very English to deny the pursuit of pleasure and reframe it as a quest for health and righteousness. Jenny merely flutters her palm upward, and the girl slowly pulls her panties up again.

“Only at night?” asks Jenny.

“Sometimes after school too, Miss” she confesses.

Another prompt, and thirty seconds later her underwear is between her ankles again. Utterly exposed, she awaits the next intimate inquiry from her headmistress.

“How do you masturbate?”

She closes her eyes again, patches of her cheeks now crimson with shame. But something tells me she couldn’t lie now, if even she wanted to.

“I lock my bedroom door and take off what I’m wearing, Miss. I like to play when I’m nude, like I am now.”

I see Jenny nod, encouraging her to continue.

“Then I lie down on my bed and put a few fingers in my mouth. I like to start by tracing wet lines around my nipples, so they tingle as the wet trails cool. Then I begin to rub my boobs, because they remind me I’m a big girl now.”

At Jenny’s signal she pulls her panties up again, then continues her recollection.

“Soon I feel a heat between my legs, so I start to caress myself down there. I rub myself all around, until I’m wet and sticky.”

She hesitates, then sees Jenny’s expression, and continues speaking – quicker now, as if she’d been granted permission to stop censoring herself.

“Then I get the vibrator I keep hidden in my bedside cabinet. At that point I usually put a pillow over myself to muffle the buzz – and because I like to pretend it’s my lover’s body between my thighs. Sometimes I place my vibrator on my clitoris, or even use it to penetrate myself.”

At that revelation I feel a tinge of regret that I never owned a vibe when I was a schoolgirl. All that joy I missed. Then Stephanie pulls her panties down again, and now I can see lines of sticky goo as her gusset comes away from her pussy lips. I must confess I can feel wetness in my own knickers too.

“Does it feel good to be honest, to stop keeping secrets?” asks Jenny.

“Yes Miss!” the naked girl replies enthusiastically.

“Do you have a crush on Mr Curle?”

“Yes, Miss…” she admits, almost apologetically.

“Do you fantasise about him?”

“Yes Miss.”

“What do you like to imagine?”

“I imagine he can’t take his eyes off me in class, Miss. That I make him hard under his desk. So he asks me to stay behind after class. Then he bends me over one of the benches in the chemistry lab, and he makes me feel amazing.”

My imagination supplies some filthy Interpretations of being made to feel amazing as the girl obediently pulls her panties up.

“Now Stephanie…” Jenny begins, in a different, suddenly serious tone of voice.

“… Mr Curle has already confided in me, and has reported your flirtatious behaviour in his class. It will have to stop, young lady! Mr Curle is thoroughly decent – and married – man. You are here to learn from him, not to seduce him!”

“Yes, Miss”  Stephanie whispers meekly, bowing her head in shame.

Quite unexpectedly, Jenny then stands up and walks from behind her desk to stand in front of the girl. She cups her chin with one hand, not aggressively, but as if she has something very important to say, and wants the girl’s undivided attention.

“I want you to report back to my office at the same time next week, when we shall have a chat about managing your limerence.”

Now that’s not a word one hears very often, I find myself thinking.

“Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss.”

Now Jenny sits down on the piano stool and nods, which turns out to be the cue for her pupil to pull down her panties one last time. Stephanie is now facing Jenny on the stool, with her back to me, so I can see her beautiful round bottom opening as she guides her underwear past her knees. It is immediately obvious how aroused she has become, her intimate lips now puffy and sticky. This time she takes her panties off completely, handing them to Jenny who inspects them without comment, before depositing them on the floor. There is a conspicuous creamy splot on the gusset.

Without being told Stephanie kneels within touching distance of where Jenny is sitting, spreading her knees apart and placing her hands between her legs. Being behind her, I can’t see what she’s doing, so my attention is instead drawn to her as-yet-unmarked bottom, resting on the heels of her dainty feet and her pretty little toes.

“I am so very, very sorry for disappointing you, Miss” she begins, before adding earnestly, “Please may I have a very hard spanking on my bare bottom?”

In response Jenny looks down from her perch, fixing the girl with her gaze. The intensity of their eye contact is emotional – almost unnerving, in fact I begin to feel my own eyes water.

“Why of course you can” Jenny replies, in a warm, almost motherly manner.

And with that Jenny reaches down and hitches up the hem of her own skirt, revealing the bare skin of her thighs. Then she motions her pupil to stand and beckons her forward slightly, jutting out her left knee so it passes between the girl’s open legs. Stephanie bends over without being told, reaching forward until her hands rest on the floor and her feet rise from the ground. The girl emits a long moan as her slick crotch slides across Jenny’s thigh.

Jenny allows the girl to squirm for a few moments, then reaches down to rub her bottom. In the hush that follows I hear my own pulse hammering in my ears. Eventually the long silence is broken by Jenny’s first spank, her open palm slapping down hard at the base of her pupil’s right bottom cheek.

“Ooo! Thank you Miss!” gasps Stephanie.

Jenny spanks slowly and deliberately, and Stephanie takes her punishment in remarkably good grace, frequently thanking her disciplinarian, and exclaiming how much she deserves her spanking.

“Harder please, Miss! I’ve been so naughty.”

Jenny is spanking with her right hand, and is using her left to gather a bunch of the girl’s hair. I notice she tugs it just before every spank, making Stephanie’s back arch, so she pushes out her bottom to receive the incoming palm. Then, when each smack lands, the girl recoils forward onto her spanker’s thigh, which is soon slick with the spanked girl’s juices.

“Ooo! Yes Miss! I deserve this so much.”

Occasionally Jenny pauses to spread the girl’s labia apart, and transfer some of her wetness from the girl’s hole to her own thigh. From my vantage point I can see everything, the bright pink gash between her pinkening cheeks, and the dainty crinkled dimple of her bottom hole. Inside my damp knickers I feel like I have a marble where my clit used to be. I desperately want to rub myself.

In my time, I have given and witnessed many spankings. Often they start slowly, formally, until eventually the recipient begins to squirm and howl as the pain begins to mount. But this restiveness merely prompts their spanker to try to reassert their authority by quickening their slaps until they began to rain down in furious flurries.

However this spanking was something very different indeed. It was conducted at a slow, almost rhythmic pace. Jenny’s hard precision-placed slaps landing almost exclusively on the lower half of her pupil’s bottom, never quickening or veering off-target. Yet the recipient of this treatment never once writhed or howled; if anything she actually raised her hips, lifting her sore pink bum higher to welcome the incoming smacks.

“Thank you Miss! I’m such a naughty girl.”

The rhythmic beat of the spanking and the girl’s back-and-forth rocking on Jenny’s thigh held me mesmerised. I began to wish it was my turn next, that the girl with the stinging bum and the gaping slit was my partner-in-crime, and soon it would be my turn to go across strict Jenny’s knee for my just deserts.

I was imagining what that would be like, the knee-trembling mix of anxiety, trepidation and soaking arousal – when suddenly, the spanking stopped. I see Jenny firmly tugging a fistful of her pupil’s hair, literally grabbing her attention.

“Now Stephanie, I want a promise from you. That you won’t ever disappoint me like this again.”

“I promise Miss! I swear I won’t disappoint you again!” she exclaims desperately.

“Promise me you’ll never flirt with a Teacher at this school again.”

“I promise Miss! Never again! Never!”

Her pledge obtained, Jenny tugs the fistful of Stephanie’s hair until her back arches and her hips rise. Then, to my considerable surprise, she slides one of her fingers into the girl’s gaping vagina. Jenny keeps her handy steady, not moving or pumping, just holding it within the girl on her lap as her breathing becomes louder and louder.

“Oh Miss! Thank you! Thank you!”

Stephanie’s mews of pleasure are mixed with expressions of contrition and gratitude for her discipline. Every little tug of her hair causes the girl to rock backwards, pushing out her rear so she can impale herself a little more deeply. All around Jenny’s intruding hand, the girl’s bum glows delightfully pink.

I notice the girl’s gasps begin to escalate, both in volume and in frequency. But then, just when a climax seems certain, Jenny suddenly withdraws her finger and spanks the girl’s proffered bottom a dozen times with a flurry of stinging smacks. The girl on her lap now seems to have lost the power of speech, and merely responds with little ahs and moans.

The spanking stops as surprisingly as it restarted. In one swift movement Jenny places her right hand between the girl’s open legs, her palm facing the floor, I see her fold back her thumb and two smallest fingers, and then she slides the remaining two digits into her pupil’s vagina. She doesn’t pump in and out, but simply holds her fingers in place as the girl’s legs bend at the knees and her feet begin to wave in the air. I notice the tendons on the back of Jenny’s hand are tensing, probably as she massages the girl’s g-spot and grasps her pubic bone.

“Will you be a good little girl for me?” Jenny asks in her most authoritative voice.

And that’s the final straw. The girl’s legs spasm as she climaxes uncontrollably on Jenny’s lap, writhing against her thigh as she tosses her head back and forth, her feet kicking wildly in the air. Her vocabulary has shrunk to a single word: Yes, which she repeats ecstatically with almost every gasping breath, like some yogic mantra.

Jenny leaves her fingers inside her for a few minutes, stroking her hair with her other hand as the aftershocks of her orgasm tremble through her. Slowly her ability to speak returns, and she begins to thank her headmistress profusely. I find myself staring at her bottom, each cheek is now completely pink. It is difficult to believe that someone who has just suffered such a painful chastisement would be so appreciative towards their punisher. And yet, she undoubtedly is.

Stephanie’s legs are still wobbly by the time Jenny helps her off her lap and back onto her feet. She teeters like someone on the deck of a ship at sea until Jenny steadies her, widening the girl’s stance by pushing her legs apart and placing her hands on the seat of the piano stool.

“A good spanking, wouldn’t you say, Miss Clara?” asks Jenny, who’s performing a fingertip inspection of the girl’s pink globes and everywhere in between. I’m not sure if it’s a rhetorical question, and my mouth is too dry to croak anything other than a guttural mmm-hmm.

Satisfied with what she’s seen, Jenny fetches a box of tissues from her desk and slowly wipes her pupil clean. It takes three tissues to do the job, as Jenny meticulously attends to every fold and crevice between her pupil’s legs.

After that, Stephanie is encouraged to stand up again, and is given the box of tissues so she can clean up the sticky mess she’d left whilst grinding along her headmistress’s thigh, whilst Jenny holds the hem of her own skirt up at her waist, almost regally. Cleaning the headmistress’s thigh takes two tissues. From my seat I find myself staring at Jenny’s own underwear, taut and shining, her crotch wrapped in an embrace of black silk.

A sixth tissue is then used by Stephanie to wipe her own juices from her headmistress’s fingers. Whereupon Jenny raises her hand expectantly to the girl’s lips, and the naked girl respectfully kisses the hand that disciplined her and the fingers that pleasured her. She kisses with an ardour which – I have to admit – I found extremely erotic.

The kiss seems be the final act of closure. Afterwards, Jenny helps her pupil to get dressed again, fastening her bra and buttoning up her blouse. Thoughtfully, she also wipes the sticky goo from the girl’s ruined panties, before taking a clean tissue and wrapping it around her garment’s damp gusset. She directs her pupil to step into her underwear before carefully pulling it up to her crotch, with some last-minute adjustments so the tissue is positioned comfortably between her tender lips.

Finally, Jenny pulls up and fastens her pupil’s skirt before holding open her blazer for the girl to push her arms into. With that, at last, Stephanie is dressed again, looking just like she did when she knocked nervously on the door almost 40 minutes ago. It seems barely believable that since then, she’s been completely exposed, emotionally and physically, undressed to be as naked as it’s possible to be.

Jenny sends her pupil on her way with a cryptic reminder that she expects a note in her pigeon hole before classes tomorrow. Stephanie nods in understanding and bids us both goodbye, before striding purposefully out of the study, her head held high, a blush on her cheeks and what might even be a smirk on her face. She will be going home with a secret, one I consider myself very privileged to share. Who would ever suspect that underneath the light grey skirt of this confident, articulate young lady is the bright pink spanked bottom of a naughty little girl?

* * 4 * *

Jenny and I are alone again, and my head is spinning at what I’ve just seen. Her method of discipline was so utterly simple, so restrained, yet devastatingly effective. Jenny never once raised her voice, never needing to drag, bully or coerce. The girl simply recognised the obviousness of her teacher’s authority and obeyed. I find that astonishing – and absurdly arousing. My panties are sodden, absolutely wet through. It feels like I’ve accidentally had a little wee.

I have no doubt that Stephanie will not be involved in any further scuffles, but mentally replaying what I’ve just seen I think I’m beginning to understand what this whole episode was really about.

The real crime was not the scuffle, but the girl’s infatuation with her teacher. There was something about how the girl left the room, doe-eyed, hanging on Jenny’s every word, that makes me think her silly unrequited desire for her chemistry teacher is now going to be replaced by something more tangible – and possibly also much more manageable: a submissiveness to the Headmistress’s will. I have no doubt Jenny is an expert in channelling the passions of teenage girls. After all, the exam scores this school achieves are quite exceptional.

But how funny to witness someone doing Ups and Downs again. It used to be my very favourite way to play. All those times growing up when I’d slide the latch to lock my bedroom door, and put on the special dress I liked to play in, the one with the safety pin that lived permanently on the back hem. I’d use it to pin up the back of my dress, enjoying how the cool draught tickled goosebumps into my thighs.

Then I’d begin to pull my panties down.

So… so… slowly…

When you’re young and naive you can’t wait to tear open your presents, to rip the paper asunder with your little grabby hands and get at what’s inside. But as one gets older, and becomes more aware of life’s vicissitudes, you learn to savour the great experiences, to prolong the moment. I discovered an even greater joy lay in anticipation, learning to delay my gratification for an even greater ecstasy later.

Pulling down my panties was like unwrapping a Christmas present, one I was determined to savour. And for me, Christmas came almost every day.

That’s how I played, waiting with my hands on head, reliving the naughty games I used to play with Jenny and my friends, enjoying the sensation of cool air wafting between my legs.

Panties up, a short wait, then panties down again.

I started keeping the wooden ruler I used for my maths homeworks beside me, so I could give myself a whack on my bum before every Up and Down – just like our juvenile game demanded. It wasn’t long before my bum was stinging, and I loved being able to admire myself in my full-length bedroom mirror, watching my bum turning deliciously pink one spank at a time.

Up… Down… Up… Down…

On every Up I tugged my panties a little bit higher, feeling them slip just a little bit further into my puffy lips. This made my Downs a delicious release as my panties slipped out from within my slit, my stickiness becoming ever more noticeable, the caress of cool air over my moist places ever more exciting.

I often gave myself 50 Ups and Downs before I allowed myself to touch myself.

100 if i’d been very naughty. My bum would be bright pink by the end.

Sometimes I could make myself come just through doing my Ups and Downs.

My record was 148.

And then, something happened.

I began to get impatient, I stopped dressing up and my slow Up and Down ritual, it was no longer quick enough to indulge my urgent need for pleasure. Now when I locked the door I’d head straight for my bed, fiddling and rubbing inside my panties before I desperately tugged them down and impaled myself greedily on my fingers instead.

Perhaps with the loss of my own self-discipline, I lost the moral authority to enforce discipline on others. I began to whack bottoms like I masturbated, quickly, loudly, and with no subtlety, hoping to achieve an instant resolution, only later to realise an ultimately unsatisfying ending.

Perhaps I’d been too quick to please the men in my life, who regarded my expensively acquired lingerie as nothing more than overpriced wrapping paper, something to be urgently torn away to reveal the precious trinkets beneath. How did I let myself become a Christmas present for little boys?

How foolish of me to forget, that the life’s sweetest delights come to those who wait.

* * *

Jenny finishes scribbling into the ledger on her desk and breaks the silence.

“So Clara. Now you know what a spanked bottom means at Wengrave Hall.”

“Goodness me…” I say weakly.

I’m slumped back on the sofa, my arms hanging heavily by my sides. I dare not rest my hands on my lap, I’m using all my willpower to resist the urge to rub.

“We both know a spanking is worthless unless it changes the course of the recipient’s behaviour. And I’ve found my current approach produces the best results by far.”

“I was most surprised to see the girl undress” I comment.

“I’ve found the girls are much more candid when they’re completely naked. It’s much harder to lie with no mask to hide behind. Undressing right at the start emphasises that what’s coming next is inevitable, that there’s nothing left to negotiate.”

I nod in agreement, undressing did seem to rapidly assure Stephanie’s compliance.

“The first job of a disciplinarian is to get the one being disciplined into the right mental state: a submissive one, so she’s respectful and appreciative of your authority. An apology is worthless unless the penitent really means it.”

It was difficult to disagree with that, certainly the girl seemed to utter more thank you’s over the course of her spanking than ows and ouches.

“You may have noticed Stephanie was bare? It’s part of an informal social contract, I tell all girls under my care to keep themselves smooth, so they each have a daily intimate reminder to be on their best behaviour. After all, they never know when they might be standing naked in front of me.”

“Do you ever use the cane or those other implements?”, I ask, pointing to the racks of rods in the glass cabinet behind me.

“Goodness no!” scoffs Jenny.

“Oh – they’re relics from a bygone era. Museum pieces! Decorations! Just there for show. They’re probably all brittle with age by now, I bet they’d snap if I used them! I’ve always preferred to use my hand anyway. The most effective spanking is the one that leaves the longest impression, and I’m not talking about welts on the bottom, but imprints in the mind.”

“Is that why the girl was indulged with such pleasure at the end?” I inquire.

“You must know, discipline is about obedience, not bruises and scourging. Our role is delivering care, not retribution. That girl had suffered her punishment, the shame of exposing herself and the pain of having her bottom smacked. And she had endured it in good grace. There’s nothing to be gained by sending her away sulking with a sore bottom, that will only foster resentment.”

Jenny looked at me knowingly, no doubt alluding to the resentful stomping from the conservatory she witnessed when I last punished Xiu. The blush on my cheeks betrayed me, I knew what she’d said was true.

“By giving her a happy ending I demonstrate who is in charge, and that despite all her transgressions, the girl is still loved. No doubt you noticed how she came promising to be a good girl?”

That was undeniable, I can’t remember hearing a more earnestly given promise.

“Are all visitors to your lap so deserving?” I enquire.

“Not all. If I’m particularly displeased about the circumstances that have brought a girl to my door I will induce her climax by pushing my finger deep into her bottom.”

I feel a reciprocal ache between my legs, I squirm as subtly as I can manage.

“Girls who continue to disappoint me will lose their finishing privileges, I’ll make them sit in silence on their sore bottoms afterwards and write an essay, so they can put into words why they’re continuing to misbehave, and disappointing me so much.”

“And the note?” I wonder.

“I encourage each girl I spank to write a thank you note before they go to bed, when the sting in their cheeks has faded, and they’ve had time to reflect on what they did wrong, and resolved to behave better.”

“Here, let me show you…” Jenny proposes, inviting me to approach the desk and look at the large leather-bound book in which she’d been writing.

“This is the Punishment Book, where I record every spanking I administer.”

I can see the entry Jenny has just added, the black ink from her fountain pen still glistening on the page. There’s Stephanie’s name, today’s date, and a brief description of the circumstances that brought her to the headmistress’s lap. And the resolution: 10 minutes Ups & Downs, spanked naked for 8 minutes. It ends with a five word summary of proceedings: Good Girl. Strong vaginal orgasm.

“And then I keep all the notes the girls write here, in a separate file…”

My friend opens a drawer at the side of her desk, and brings out a lever arch file. I take it when offered and return to my seat to browse through it.

What I notice right away is how different each page is, these are not bureaucratic punishment forms, but every variety of paper imaginable. Some have used lined A4 pages, no doubt taken from the same pads they use to write notes in class. Others have taken the inside pages from jotters, twin puncture marks in the middle where the staples used to be. Others have chosen proper writing paper, some sheets are thick and crisp, others textured like linen, some have cutesy little illustrations, the kind the girls probably once used to write thank you notes when they were much younger. I wonder if what I’m reading is the first thank you its author had written for a long, long time.

I stop at a few at random and begin to read. They all seem to start with a “Dear Miss, …”, before a heartfelt apology segues into an effusive thank you.

Clearly their discipline has quite an impact, in several cases, the writer has attempted to explain the background to their poor behaviour. Some readily admit to just being poorly organised, missing assignments because of a busy social life. More heartrending are those who confess to problems at home, or issues with insecurity and self-confidence that led to them showing off to their peers, in the desperate hope of fitting in.

They end as they began, in contrition, each desperately sorry for disappointing their headmistress. The language used throughout is informal, chummy, almost affectionate, and by the end I can feel the sorrow in their hearts. Most sign their name with love, some even include kisses.

“They…” I struggle for the word I want to use, before realising the answer is obvious.

“… they… love… you.”

I feel my eyes mist as I say it.

“Discipline is love” Jenny observes.

It wasn’t a flippant remark, and now in retrospect I understand exactly what she meant. Yet it made me think of what I’d just witnessed, the ramifications of one schoolgirl’s crush; there was one more question I had to ask.

“But don’t you ever have problems with girls deliberately getting into trouble to get your attention?”

Jenny gives me a wry smile, and gazes silently into the space in the middle of the room.

* * *

Clara’s question was insightful.

Yes, some girls can’t wait to visit me. Which presents something of a dilemma. Standards must be maintained, I can’t be seen to turn a blind eye to rule-breaking, and I certainly won’t tolerate any of my girls performing anywhere underneath their best. Yet some girls do develop such a craving for my hand that they deliberately get themselves into trouble.

Consequently, if I ever think a girl’s misbehaviour was actually motivated by a desire to dance across my knee, I would offer her a deal: be a model student during the coming month and at the end of it, she would earn a trip across my lap.

As it happened, one such girl visited my office yesterday as part of our special agreement. Bethany is an exceptional pupil, clever, diligent and ambitious, she’d just received an offer to enter medical school. But at the beginning of the year I’d been puzzled by her uncharacteristically childish behaviour, and it was clear I would need to intervene to preserve her academic prospects. So I had invited her to my office, and we began a candid discussion of the real reasons behind her failing performance, whilst she stood naked in front of me with her panties around her ankles, of course.

The real reason, it transpired, was Bethany had become fascinated with spankings. Several of her friends had gone across my knee, and their accounts had been fuelling her own nocturnal fantasies. Like any conscientious scientist, Bethany had started experimenting with her own bedroom slipper, trying to replicate the sensations her friends had described. She had discovered how much she’d enjoyed her re-enacting her friends’ experiences, the escalating eroticism of pulling her panties up and down, ritual of bending over, and the unexpected pleasure that accompanied each stinging smack to her bottom.

Eventually her curiosity overwhelmed her, and she had decided to try to earn a visit to see me. She had started handing in her homeworks late, and made sure she would be overheard using profane and unladylike language whenever I passed her group of friends in the school corridors. It wasn’t long before I felt I had to intervene. So I had summoned her to my study, where she obediently pulled down her panties, and eventually, bared her soul.

Yesterday I’d been sitting at my desk, responding to email while I awaited her latest visit. There were a couple of quick raps on my study door.

Bethany entered nervously at my invitation, her shoulders slumped forward and her hands clasped in front of her waist. Even though she was here voluntarily, she adopted the classic naughty girl posture. I’d seen it countless times before.

To lighten the atmosphere and put her at ease we indulged in a bit of smalltalk, until I felt it was appropriate to begin the business at hand.

“So Bethany, have you earnt the right to stand naked in front of me this month?”

“Yes Miss!” she announced proudly, “I achieved A+ in both of my recent biology and chemistry assignments!”

I knew this already, of course, I keep a close eye on the performance of all my girls, regardless of whether they’re due across my knee. But there’s no harm letting them glory in their achievements.

“You are such a clever girl!”

My praise was sincerely meant, from what I’d read from her tutors, she’d been performing genuinely excellent work. I could see her struggling to suppress a smile of pride.

“Then you may undress for me.”

I noticed her shimmy in a little excited jig at my instruction. She undressed quickly and enthusiastically. Slow stripteases can be very tantalising of course, but I find it even more erotic to see someone urgently tear off their clothes because they just can’t wait to be naked in front of me.

Moments later, Bethany was standing with her hands on her head, wearing only her underwear, her chest heaving from the exertion of undressing so rapidly, obediently waiting my next instruction.

“Now pull down your panties like a good girl.”

In contrast to the frantic pace of her undressing, she performed my command very slowly indeed, taking what seemed like an age to peel down her underwear, revealing her immaculately smooth mound and the fleshy pink contours of her vulva. Being hairless means a much more pleasant experience when a girl inevitably grinds herself along my thigh; for both of us.

As her panties reached mid-thigh I could see a sanitary pad in her gusset. But it wasn’t because it was her monthly time, we always schedule our appointments to avoid that. Rather, many girls find the prospect of an after-school visit with me very exciting, but rather than spend the school day squirming in wet panties, some elect wear to pads to absorb the physical manifestations of their excitement.

“Is that the only pad you’ve worn today?” I enquired when she had finished lowering her underwear.

“No Miss. I changed it at lunchtime.”

“Give it to me, please.”

She reached down to the floor and pulled the pad from the material of her panties with a faint tearing noise, before hobbling towards my desk, her underwear taut like manacles between her ankles. She placed the pad in my outstretched palm then shuffled backwards to her original position.

The pad was sticky on both sides, from its adhesive on the bottom, and several hours of its wearer’s excitement on the top. I brought it slowly up to my face, scrutinising the glistening tidemarks and dried-out creamy splots. I raised it to my nostrils, looking deep into the girl’s eyes as I inhaled the musky scent of her arousal deep into my lungs. She smelt of girly perfume and zesty sweat, of damp earth after a summer storm, of honeysuckle flowers and musty old books. She smelt of that indescribable spirit we desire the most.

As I inhaled her very essence, I watched my student look back at me with lust burning in her eyes. I’m sure at that moment had her hands not been pinioned on her head, she would have plunged them into the wet puffy crevice between her legs. The relief she gained when I signalled she could pull up her panties came as little consolation.

I placed her pad on my desk delicately, I would come back and enjoy that later.

“Now Bethany, I want you to promise me you’ll never waste my time with anything less than your very best.”

“Of course, Miss.”

She spoke with a degree of earnestness that suggested the very idea of failing to excel was quite ridiculous. I nodded, and gestured that she could pull her panties down again.

“Are you doing your Up and Downs every night?”

“Yes Miss. I do them after I finish my homework.”

A wave of my hand, and she slowly pulled her panties up.

“And how often do you masturbate?”

“Every night before falling asleep Miss.”

“And how do you like to do it?”

“My hand just starts wandering, Miss, I stroke myself all over, until eventually I stray into my pyjama bottoms…”

At my signal, she pulls her panties down again.

“… then I rub up and down my lips until they get puffy and wet. I usually pull my bottoms off then, so I don’t make a mess inside them.”

My position as headmistress has given me an enviable expertise on the masturbatory habits of teenage girls.

The clitoris tends to be first pleasure spot to be discovered, so rubbing tends to be popular with the younger girls, typically as they lie on their backs with a finger or two between their legs or face down with a palm under their crotch. Pillows feature regularly too, especially amongst those keen to recreate the experience of going over my knee, a couple placed between the thighs so they can grind rhythmically with their bare bottoms in the air. I’ve found those who play when they’re alone in the house often like to recreate their spankings, tapping and smacking their own bottoms with a slipper, ruler or hairbrush.

As they get older, fingers start to explore deeper inside, with the more adventurous daring to probe their tightest hole. Once bank cards and the confidence to shop online are acquired, dildos and vibrators start to appear. By sixth form, the erotic knowledge of some of my students is extraordinary, I’ve found some can even teach me a thing or two.

Some might think my enquiries intrusive, but I consider it vital to know the sexual health of every girl in my care. If a girl is not masturbating, I believe it is important to know why. Lingering notions of shame or dirtiness need to be challenged at an early age. I’ve seen the damage done by unreleased sexual frustration, how it can drive girls into the arms of unworthy and boorish men. The prudish might try to deny it, but we all have a sexual side. I consider it far better that each girl leaves my care with healthy understanding of her own sexuality, believing it is a gift to be treasured, not a dirty secret to be buried.

“And what do you think of when you play?” I asked.

“Sometimes being spanked by you Miss, and…”

She hesitated, unsure whether to continue talking so frankly. I encouraged her on with a friendly smile and gestured that she could expose herself. Being naked before me always seems to loosen tongues. She slipped her panties down to her ankles again.

“Sometimes I imagine doing naughty things to you Miss.”

“Oh really? What kind of naughty things?” I asked curiously.

“I imagine kneeling in front of you, Miss. I’m watching you slowly pulling your panties down, then up, then down again… and…”

She hesitates, uncertain if she’s said far too much. I smile sympathetically and wave her on.

” … and every time you pull your panties down, I kiss you between your legs.”

I had to fight to keep my composure. What I like best about Up and Downs is how the candidness of answers increases every time the panties are lowered, as if the voluntary lowering of panties is an unmasking, shedding layers until the subject is fully exposed, naked in body and mind.

“Then I slide a finger inside you Miss. I hope you don’t mind…” she added hurriedly.

“Not at all” I said as casually as I could manage.

At that point I waved her panties upwards, buying a minute’s grace to compose myself.

“And then?”

“I keep sliding my finger in and out until you finish, Miss.”

“Until I climax?”

“Yes Miss. I hope that’s not too presumptuous, Miss.”

“Oh, heavens no! That’s very considerate. You are a sweetheart!”

I rewarded her revelation by allowing her to pull her panties down again.

I can still remember the longing ache I felt in my own crotch as my eyes first wandered across my prodigy’s naked body. She was sexually precocious, though perhaps still slightly too young to allow her to act out all her fantasies right now. But I believe it’s important to keep my star students striving, with appropriate incentives to improve themselves.

“And then you put me over your knee Miss, and spank me hard until I finish too.”

I smiled warmly.

“Well now! I know a delightful young lady who’s earned a good hard spanking on her pretty little bottom!”

I could see Bethany beaming with glee, her eyes sparkling.

At that point I rose from behind my desk and strode over to the spanking stool. Once I’d sat down I hitched up the hem of my skirt, exposing the tops of my thighs. All it takes is a knowing look down at my knee, my best students don’t need a verbal invitation, she immediately stepped out of her sticky panties, leaving them lying on the floor.

She was familiar with my disciplinary ritual by now, for her ultimate act of exposure. She knelt in front of me with her legs apart, reaching down to spread her labia apart with her fingertips, revealing her little glistening pearl and her slick pink crevice.

“I’ve been a very good girl for you, Miss. Please may I have a long hard spanking on my bare bottom?”

And she had indeed been a very good girl, so a good hard spanking was the very least she deserved. All I needed do was nod.

At my signal, Bethany stood, taking a step forward before lunging enthusiastically across my lap, her outstretched hands reaching for the floor, her legs on either side of my left knee. I could feel the heat of her bare mound on my thigh, then a sudden hot wetness, like the top of my leg had just received a particularly sloppy kiss. The hot wet mark slid up my thigh as she bent further and further forward, moaning contentedly until the palms of her hands were on the floor and her feet had lifted off the ground.

“Such a good little girl” I told her, as I massaged and stroked her bottom cheeks.

And then I started spanking, slowly, deliberately and hard. I spanked her just as hard as I would punish any naughty girl, she’d have felt cheated if it was any other way. The only difference is that where I would usually scold the girl on my lap for her delinquency, now I punctuated my spanks with praise.

With every smack, I could feel her smooth mound grind against my thigh, and she moaned or thanked me after every stroke. Two round pink patches soon appeared on her bottom, and in-between I could see her vagina begin to gape.

“You are such a clever girl, Bethany. All your teachers think very highly of you.”

I married my praise with a flurry of spanks, causing my student to mew wordlessly in appreciation. Sincere flattery, the ultimate feel-good accolade; because how many of us really know how much others appreciate us?

“All your hard work will be so well rewarded, Bethany. You can be anything you want to be. The whole world’s at your feet.”

What a thrill it was to deliver a spanking with such positivity. I looked down at the beautiful young woman perched naked on my lap, and felt my bosom swell with pride. I had known her for seven years, ever since she was a little girl. I remember her entrance interview, trembling nervously, the painfully reticent girl who, when finally coaxed from her shell, burst with extraordinary ideas. I never thought I’d need to spank her bottom, not for bad behaviour anyway.

When I could sense she was getting close, I began to run my fingers through her hair. I grabbed a bunch of her soft black curls, tugging firmly to win back her attention, before treating her to another series of hard stinging spanks. In response, she squirmed delightfully on my lap.

“Miss, please!” she gasped, “I’m so close!”

I spanked her hard for her temerity, reminding her I decided when those underneath my palm were granted release. Gasps and moans peppered her apologises. I continued spanking until I was sure her rosy cheeks would still be stinging by the time she masturbated in bed tonight.

Pain and pleasure made Bethany grind herself deliriously on my lap. It was only then that I placed my fingertip at the entrance to her vagina, as if I was shushing the lips of a noisy child.

“Oh please Miss!” my pupil pleaded.

Two of my fingers slid into her effortlessly, then curled downwards, gripping her tight. I always relieve the good girls this way; most of my girls tend to play by rubbing their clits, so my method feels exotic, like a special treat. But such pleasure must be earned, if I believe a girl performs her Ups and Downs poorly, or I feel her apologies are insincere, or I believe she hasn’t learnt her lesson yet, I shall push my index finger into her bottom, and masturbate her anally instead.

I could feel Bethany’s vagina begin to quiver around my fingers. Any moment now. I lowered my lips to her closest ear and whispered:

“I’m so proud of you, Bethany.”

My star pupil came exuberantly moments later, bucking vigorously on my thigh, her hands supporting herself on the floor, her bare feet kicking wildly in the air.

I kept my fingers inside her as she lay sprawled on my lap, feeling the aftershocks of her climax quivering against my fingers. With my other hand I stroked her hair during several minutes of intimate silence.

And then afterwards, when strength had returned to her wobbly legs, because she’d been such a good girl, I allowed her a single kiss.

But I tell Clara none of this.

* * *

Clara must have noticed my vacant stare, her voice interrupts my reminiscence.

“Yes…?” she prompts.

“Yes” I admitted, “Some girls do develop a bit of a crush on me. But that’s why I question each girl so intimately, to discover the real reason she’s here. Often it’s just that basic human need, to feel someone cares about you.”

Clara nods in understanding.

“If a girl isn’t misbehaving, I always offer her a deal: if she excels in her schoolwork, she can visit me every month. What happens will be exactly the same, she’ll undress to her panties, then pull them up and down at my command until she’s soaking wet. Then I’ll put her over my knee and spank her hard until she comes. And if she wants to come back next month, the only requirement is she performs even better.”

I shuffle through the pages of my desk diary.

“I have appointments with two such prodigies tomorrow, Melissa is currently excelling in Maths, and Rei is producing some remarkable written English, it seems her poetry is attracting quite a following online.”

“To be honest, Clara, I spank many more good girls than bad girls these days.”

At this, I see my friend’s eyebrows rise in surprise, so I continue to explain.

“I’ve always thought the defining characteristic of a good headmistress is the ability to convert naughty girls into good girls, and keep them that way. One that spends her time punishing with no discernable improvement in behaviour is a poor disciplinarian indeed.”

Clara’s wide-eyed expression now resembles one of incredulity. Is she really that surprised that I use spankings more as a means of encouragement than as a means of punishment? From what I witnessed last week, I was inclined to think her approach to increasing disobedience is simply to spank harder. Yet, there is another way. A better way.

I believe I have one more lesson to teach.

* * 5 * *

Jenny’s last comment had left me dumbstruck. That some of her girls, her best performing girls, wanted to go over her knee so badly they made appointments. I can see her looking at me intently, like she was an owl, and I was a mouse.

“Now, that just leaves one more naughty girl to punish” Jenny observes.

Instinctively, I look back at the door, waiting for another knock, but nothing breaks the awkward silence. I look back at Jenny, who is still looking directly at me. And then, suddenly, I understand.

“Get undressed, Clara” the headmistress orders.

The bluntness of her command leaves me reeling.

“What?! No!” I reply instinctively.

My objection prompts Jenny to jump to her feet, stepping around her considerable desk until all of a sudden she’s looming above me.

“Do you need me to undress you, young lady?” she asks sternly.

She reaches down to grasp my wrist, and pulls me to my feet. I want to protest, but I just feel like a little girl again. My big girl voice seems to have deserted me. Somehow my fingers have risen to my own throat, and I find myself beginning to unbutton my blouse. Jenny helps it off my shoulders, then reaches around me and unhooks my bra. My nipples, still hard from watching Stephanie’s spanking, send a tingle across my body when finally exposed.

Visibly pleased by my acquiescence, Jenny turns and sits down on the spanking stool, and watches as I slip off my shoes and unfasten my skirt, letting it drop unceremoniously to my feet. I roll down my nude tights to reveal my last remaining garment: my skimpy ivory-coloured satin briefs, which reveal my hips and barely cover my mound, I might as well be wearing a thong.

Some distantly remembered muscle memory makes me put my hands on my hand, and I stand in front of Jenny again, awaiting her scrutiny.

“It seems someone found watching a schoolgirl getting her bare bum spanked rather exciting…” she observes.

The evidence of my disgrace is plain to see, the front of my briefs are soaked through, as if I’d wet myself.

“Pull down your panties, Clara.”

A shiver runs the length of my body. Jenny has no idea how long I’ve waited to hear those words again. This all feels so unreal, slightly fuzzy around the edges, like some vivid dream or hallucination. But I do as she instructs, my fingertips reaching under the elasticated ribbon at my waist, slowly tugging my remaining modesty down my hips. I feel so naughty when the damp fabric of my briefs clings momentarily to my sticky lips.

This time there’s no one behind me to stare between my bottom cheeks as I bend at my knees, but I find the motion just as exciting as I remember. Once my underwear is at my ankles I stand upright again for Jenny’s scrutiny.

“I expect my students to keep themselves bare,” she observes, “that will have to go.”

I look down at the little bush on my mound, and nod agreeably whilst I process what she’s just said, how she’d placed her emphasis on ‘my students’. It echoes around my head as I search for nuances and hidden meaning, wondering if meant she considers me one of her own pupils now.

Jenny flutters her finger, and I obediently pull my panties up again.

Part of me wants to speak up, to refuse to continue with this silly ritual. I’m too proud to admit I deserve the same treatment as her naughty schoolgirls. I’m Clara Tayborn! I tell myself. Professional governess. Much too important to be subjected to an indignity like this. But then Jenny’s finger instructs me to tug my panties down again. And as I do so, I feel my resistance weaken further.

“Why do you spank your girls?” Jenny asks.

“Because they’ve been naughty” I reply, trying not to sound flippant, I thought that much was obvious.

“No. No. No! That’s not WHY you should be spanking them.” corrected Jenny, scolding my ignorance like I was a silly child. I’m directed to pull my panties down as penitence.

“You should only spank because you care.”

I nod my understanding bashfully.

“Why do you shout at your girls?” Jenny asks.

“Because they don’t listen!” I answer, rather tetchily.

“I’d say it’s more that they don’t hear anything worth listening to” she observes.

“But… I need to preserve my authority somehow…” I whine.

As I tug up my panties, I can feel the ache caused by her criticism throbbing in my tummy.

“The strictest words are softly spoken” Jenny says quietly, as if to emphasise her point.

At her direction, I begin to expose myself again. In that long awkward silence I begin to admit my failings to myself. What I was wielding wasn’t authority, not like the authority Jenny has. I begin to recognise that the discipline I’d inflicted on my girls had been completely counter-productive. My chastisements had been delivered in anger, and had only served to foster more resentment. This horrid realisation shocks me. All I can do is burble a meek apology.

“I’m so so sorry, Miss”

My voice doesn’t sound like a big girl’s any more. I realise I need my friend’s approval, her acceptance, more than anything. I want her to make things right. That’s when a sinking fear begins to swell inside me: that she’ll stop right now, tell me I’ve learnt my lesson and instruct me to get dressed, and then send me home without the punishment I know I deserve.

“I deserve a good spanking Miss!” I blurt out.

“I know” she says simply.

There is another long silence, I can feel her eyes roving across my body, as if she’s peering under my skin, verifying my sincerity.

“Give me your panties, and kneel.” she says at last.

I step out of my embarrassingly sodden underwear and creep forward humbly, like a wretched peasant approaching a regal throne, kneeling before the Queen to present my shabby gift.

“Knees apart. Hold yourself open and show me your clit.”

I am under her spell now. I want to do anything she asks of me, no matter how explicit or humiliating. I part my legs, reaching down to my crotch with both hands, splaying my labia apart with the fingers of one hand, and pulling the hood of my clit back with the other. I can feel my pearl throbbing with every thumping heartbeat.

I look up into her eyes and find myself imploring her.

“Please spank me, Jen,” I’m begging now, “… spank me like a naughty girl … spank me hard on my bare bottom.”

A thrill shimmers through me as I see Jenny hitching the hem of her skirt, revealing the beautifully smooth expanse of her thigh.

“Over my knee…” she says simply.

I stand as quickly as my trembling legs will allow, and straddle Jenny’s leg just as her pupil had done, lunging past Jenny’s hip until my palms are resting on the ground. I gasp as my weight leaves my feet and my wet crotch slides along her thigh.

Jenny parts my bottom for a cursory inspection, and then begins spanking me without saying another word. Each hard whack leaves a fiery imprint on my cheeks. I’d forgotten how sore a proper spanking could be, each smack a little ring of blazing pain that quickly becomes a stinging ache, then another, and again until all the patches begin to overlap, throbbing into a smarting medley of burning torment.

And yet I hear my own voice, asking – begging – to be disciplined harder.

I feel Jenny’s hand running through my hair, gathering a bunch and tugging hard. I arch my back, presenting my bottom for her attention. I am her puppet, completely under her control. I find myself thinking back to that night I disciplined Xiu, how crude my whackings must have seemed, how disappointed she must have been in me.

In between gasps I heard myself desperately apologising for my poor stewardship of those in my care. I know I’ve failed them, and as my bottom burns I beg my friend to teach me the art of loving discipline.

“I’d be delighted to teach you” says my oldest friend.

Once, when I was a girl, I broke a neighbour’s window with a ball. Somehow I managed to run away and never admitted to it. A policeman even visited our street, but I was so innocent back then; they blamed it on a group of rowdy boys instead. I used to fantasise about the whacking I would have received had I not run and been caught. How I’d be put over my neighbour’s knee and have my bottom bared, and then be slippered like I was the naughtiest girl in the entire world. I spent years wondering how sore a spanking could really be. And now I know, at last the spanking I’ve long-deserved.

I’m almost delirious now, only just aware of Jenny’s middle finger hovering below my nose. I take it into my mouth, sucking it submissively like a pacifier, something to soothe me as her strict palm repeatedly stings my bottom.

Then her finger withdraws, I whine childishly. Moments later I feel a damp fingertip circling my bottom hole. Now I remember what Jenny said, that a finger in the bum is what naughty girls get. I feel a pang of deep regret, that I’d been such a disappointment to my old friend, that I don’t even deserve her fingers in my pussy.

She pulls my hair like reins, and I lift my stinging bottom dutifully. My tight hole offers surprisingly little resistance to her fingertip. By the time her first knuckle enters me, I knew my body had surrendered to her.

“Make me better, Jen” I gasped.

A sense of tranquility washes over me, a sense of contentment, of things making finally making sense. That what had been missing from my disciplinings was not just authority, but love. I feel myself relaxing, welcoming rather resisting Jenny’s probing finger.

Then a second digit begins to enter my bottom. It hurts – my whole bum hurts – but Jenny tugs my hair and I push back compliantly, quickly impaling myself. Now I can feel both her fingers deep within me, like she’s somehow giving my insides a delightful tickle. Her tickling becomes a pleasurable shiver, and I realise I’m about to pass the point of no return.

I manage to gasp Jenny’s name just before every nerve in my body seems to fire. Each patch of my skin seems to tremble, the burning pain of my spanked bottom instantly numbed. I come squirming and kicking on her lap, my back arched, grinding my soaking crotch against her thigh as her fingers are squeezed tight by my quivering hole.

It is the most extraordinary orgasm of my life. An epiphany.

Although I remember virtually nothing of it, later Jenny told me I spent a couple of minutes dancing and moaning upon her lap.

When I eventually recover the strength to stand again, Jenny makes me bend over the stool with my legs apart, and wipes me clean like a naughty little girl. I had made quite a mess on her thigh too.

* * *

That night I stayed at Jenny’s residence. I found my old friend’s company intoxicating, and we talked well into the early hours. My heart leapt when we agreed to meet regularly in future, she as the judicious teacher, me as her grateful student.

I had so wanted to repay the favour, to give her the pleasure that she had bestowed on me.

But she simply kissed me and told me that too was a privilege I’d have to earn.

My beautiful friend can be so cruel.

* * 6 * *

I sent the photo of the inscription I found inside Clara’s bench to a polyglot friend. It is indeed written in Arabic script, but its words are actually in Farsi, the ancient language of Persia. The text turns out to be the opening lines of 13th century Sufi love poem by Rumi, an eight-hundred year old voice that whispers like the desert sands:

“If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting will look,
lift your face
and say,
Like this.”

It is a secret message, one intended to be seen solely by the individual bent over the bench, and then only when she tosses her head as she comes.

How delightful. Could you ever imagine such an artefact, or indeed such a beautifully erotic sentiment, originating from the pious darkness of 13th century Europe? I wonder how Clara came by it. Some erotic adventure in a sand-blown souk no doubt.

This new revelation makes me wonder if that beautiful piece of furniture was initially created as a fucking bench rather than a spanking bench. It’s become my new favourite fantasy – imagining myself in the glorious walled city of old Baghdad, in one of the last glorious summers of the Abbasid Caliphate, the fin de siècle before the devastating Mongol storm. 

Maybe the bench was a gift, a wedding present from the son of the Caliph to his new bride. It excites me to think of her, raising her head to read the secret inscription in the moonlight just before her consciousness is swept away by an irresistible wave of ecstasy.

It thrills me to imagine all those who must have lain in the same position over the ages. Restrained and surrendered, enjoying the kisses of whips and their lovers’ lips. I picture each lucky captive being teased, feeling the head of her lover’s stiff cock bobbing between her legs whilst his nimble fingers massage her petals apart.

Once I dreamt of a camel train, trudging over golden dunes. Behind them proud Baghdad, smouldering mournfully under a shroud of smoke, the river Tigris running black with the ink of looted books. The camels carry many priceless treasures, and on the back of one, I see the bench. It is the beginning of an epic wandering journey; until seven hundred years later, it finally encounters me.

I have already planned a new episode for her beautiful bench, one that I hope befits its glorious history.

The family is away this weekend, so we shall have the house to ourselves. It will be a hot, sticky midsummer night, and I’ve already told Clara that when I arrive tomorrow evening I expect to find her wearing just her panties. It shall be the most she wears all weekend.

When the full moon has risen high in the night sky, I shall lead Clara by the hand to the conservatory. I shall climb to the top of the bench and sit astride it, like a Queen mounted on her royal steed, and command her to begin her Ups and Downs. I shall look down on her with regal authority as she repeatedly exposes herself, looking up to me with wide obedient eyes.

When I am satisfied by her submissiveness I shall dismount, and instruct her to bend over her own beautiful bench. Only when I have fastened her by hand and foot, will I undress completely. This way Clara will be unable to see behind her, I will be blur in the corner of her eyes, an apparition, her very own angel of discipline.

I plan to chastise her with her own whip. I will spank her bottom hard just like a naughty girl, but pausing from time to time to run the stem of the crop between her needy lips. I shall use its round leather tip to flog the tender regions between her open cheeks, and continue until I’ve painted every part of her backside pink. I shall spank her until I’ve quashed the resistance within her muscles, to the point when her struggles cease, and she finally slumps over the bench subdued.

Then I will reach over and lower a blindfold over her eyes. Because I intend to tease every one of her senses.

Only then shall I walk in front of her, and bend over in front of her face.

So first she will smell me.

I will let her inhale the scent of my cunt. I shall say nothing. I shall let her animal mind wake her from her slumber.

And then she will feel me, as I back into her eager face.

The tip of her nose will be the first to feel my heat, before her mouth touches the velvety softness of my lips.

Then she will taste me.

I shall shimmy my hips, dancing until she has covered every part of her tongue with my sweet musky flavour.

Only then she will hear me.

All my little gasps and moans as I enjoy her tribute.

But still her eyes will remain denied. I know Clara has never seen my cunt, and how she longs to see me intimately. Perhaps if her tongue is diligent, I will turn around and lift her blindfold, but keep my bottom pressed into her face, so all she sees is the blurry outline of my cheeks.

Only when she’s brought me to the very edge will I slowly walk forward. I want the first sight she has of my cunt to be a vision, like an oasis emerging from a desert haze.

I expect I’ll feel her hot breath blowing across my wet, excited lips. I shall tease her by revealing just how close she came to making me come.

Eventually I will release her, help her down, and take her place on top of the bench. And then I intend to surrender myself to Clara’s erotic imagination. I want to know how eager to please my marvellous new student can be.

And more than anything, I want to read that message in the moonlight as I come.

* * *

Tomorrow evening, my dear teacher Jenny is coming back to visit me – to stay the night. I find myself trembling with excitement. She has promised me a very special surprise.

Since becoming her student, I have solemnly promised not touch myself without her permission, as I attempt to relearn my self-discipline. I’m shaved bare now, of course, which helps me feel like I’m one of her schoolgirls. And every night before going to bed I do my Ups and Downs.

I’m writing this, dear diary, dressed only in my panties, already damp through anticipation. In a moment I shall put down my pen, and walk to the middle of the room. I’ll feel my chest swell as I take several deep, almost yogic, breaths.

And then I’ll slowly pull my panties down.

I perform my ritual like Jenny has taught me, standing with my underwear around my ankles and my hands on my head, breathing slowly and deeply, filling and emptying my lungs. Soon, I’ll feel my head clearing, the mental fog of the day somehow dissipating. For a moment, I’ll meditate on the virtues of self-discipline as cool air wafts across my cheeks. And then I slowly pull my panties up again.

I always take my time of course, Jenny is teaching me to enjoy the journey of arousal rather than rushing to its destination. She is very strict about such things.

Afterwards I often send her an image of my wetness, my swollen pink folds, politely and respectfully asking permission to take the final step and rub myself towards relief. The pause whilst I await her reply is such a thrill, even when the answer is sometimes: No.

At first, I resented my frustration, the cruel times when I was sent to bed with such longing burning between my legs. But soon I began to understand: that gratification and denial were like light and shadow, each inextricably linked, each meaningless with each other. It wasn’t long before her wisdom won my obedience.

Panties up, then panties down.

Up, then down.

Up, then down.

I’m a good girl doing Up and Downs again.

spankingtheatre 2014

You’re welcome to share.

You wicked, wicked man. I woke up this morning, panties damp and clinging, from a dream that you had released your most recent masterpiece. A dream about just being able to read one of your stories left me rolling around in bed for the better part of the morning. Please … please … please post it. I believe I speak for more than myself in saying many naughty girls are squirming to read your next installment. Please, pretty please? With sugar and damp cotton thongs on top?

What a lovely plea. I’m honoured that just the thought of my latest story can leave eager readers squirming. I’m certain it will not disappoint.

The story in question is now finished. It is 51 pages and 18700 words long, and is currently being enjoyed by my elite team of proof-readers. I plan to do some last-minute polishing, and will then queue it for posting at midnight Saturday (UK time). That way, those in Europe and Asia will be able to enjoy it in bed on Sunday morning, and those of you across the Atlantic will get a wonderfully intense bedtime story.

I predict an upsurge in damp cotton thongs this weekend…

Never too old for fairytales?

Image: Thomas Cole, The Past and The Present (1838)

I do love fairytales.

Not the bland, colourful fast-food served up by Disney to fill its theme parks, but the dark, archaic gothic tales that have been told and retold around the glowing hearths of Europe over countless cold winter nights.

One Christmas, long ago, I read a tale that haunted my dreams. About a boy with a splinter in his eye and ice in his heart, imprisoned in an ice castle by the imperious, domineering Snow Queen, pitifully arranging ice blocks, trying to spell ‘eternity’ before his heart froze.

Then – just in time – a girl arrives, his childhood sweetheart, and the ice melts. I was too young to understand all the story’s layers. Like why I found the frigid, stern, unfeeling Queen so fascinating; I wondered if she spanked the poor boy’s bottom with her icy hands before sending him to bed each night. And back then I didn’t understand the redemptive, magical power of love…

Read More →

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑