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?
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