A spanking story
The door to the detention room had opened without warning.
She looked down at what she’d written, now spanning several handwritten pages, initially neat, but then steadily deteriorating in presentational quality. as she’d entered the Zone. That moment had unleashed a flood of words, in a sudden hot torrent of erotic self-expression whose candour had taken her completely by surprise.
She’d been expecting his return for a while. In fact, he had promised it. He had left her here alone to write, alone in detention with just a pen and her thoughts, which ironically where the two very things that had gotten her into so much trouble in the first place.
She had finished writing about 10 minutes ago, having said everything she had intended to say. Enough for writer’s regret to set in, to become acutely self-conscious of the confession she’d just poured onto her pages. Which Sir would soon be reading, and from which Sir would soon learn all of her secrets.
For the past two hours, she’d been sitting alone in classroom 21A. Yet several hours before, she’d been sitting on the very same chair surrounded by her classmates, attending one of Mr Mortimer’s lessons.
Strict, dreamy Mr M was her Maths teacher. He wasn’t toweringly tall, but he did have a certain presence, a quietly-spoken compelling demeanour, never domineering or bullying, but there was never any doubt his voice expected obedience from those who heard it.
Yet she had disobeyed him. He had told the class to work on their own solution to a calculus problem, some esoteric application of partial differential equations. She normally excelled at this kind of challenge, but this morning she was distracted by more carnal thoughts.
Her pen had hovered over her blank page, awaiting instructions from a mind that had decided to concentrate on matters other than higher-order geometry. Her eyes seemed to lose focus, as if the muscles responsible for their movement had grown weary, until she was absent-mindedly staring at her teacher. In her daze she hadn’t even realised how flirtatiously she’d been combing her fingers through her hair, and certainly hadn’t noticed her classmates’ sideways smirks. Not that her inattention was caused by indifference, on the contrary, Mr Mortimer’s class was the highlight of her academic week.
She found herself lapsing into a daydream, a beguiling distortion of her current reality. Her mind began riffing on her teacher’s stern demeanour, the disapproving glance he’d given her when he’d noticed she wasn’t writing. Then, her imagination took over, escalating her situation into a thrilling fantasy.
With surprising clarity, she dreamt her whole class had gotten into trouble. Each one of them having to write little confessions for Sir, who then lined them up at the front of the class to have their panties pulled down and their excitement inspected.
She felt her pen move, clandestinely doodling…
It had been an extraordinary, pulse-quickening daydream. But just like the parabolic problem she was meant to be solving, her mental escape was fleeting, a trajectory that was always doomed to return to earth. Then reality resumed, her teacher’s characteristically stern voice asking her to remain behind and see him after class. As her friends tittered, a shock ran between her legs so intense that she almost peed herself.
She looked down in shock, and hurriedly turned the page with the obscene picture she’d scribbled, earnestly hoping no-one had managed to glimpse it.
She spent the remainder of the class calculating almost apologetically, not that her remorse stopped her panties from filling with a wetness of a very different kind. Eventually, the end of lesson bell rang, and she sat shame-faced, blushing brightly as her classmates filed past her, shooting a series of silent, teasing glances as they went.
When the last had left the room, she had stood, closing her textbook and gathering her possessions, before self-consciously smoothing down her skirt and advancing to the front of the class.
“You wanted to see me Sir?” she’d asked, with a coy innocence that even she didn’t find particularly convincing.
He got straight to the point.
“You are in my class to learn, young lady. This classroom is not a quiet place for students to drift off to their private little dreamworlds.”
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
She was shocked to hear herself apologise, basically admitting her guilt before she’d even had a chance to formulate an appropriate excuse. But Mr M was very charismatic, slightly intimidating even, and she didn’t want to lie to him.
“Report back here after lessons end today, young lady. Dismissed.”
“Yes Sir!” she said excitedly.
It took her a few moments to realise how ridiculous she sounded. She was being called back to be disciplined, probably to sit in detention like a silly little schoolgirl. Yet she had reacted to her sanction like she’d been nominated for some special honour. She hurried out of the classroom blushing furiously, not daring to meet her stern teacher’s gaze.
* * *
At the end of the school day, she had arrived back in the classroom to find Sir waiting, and the subject of her detention essay already written on the blackboard in front of her.
“What I was daydreaming about”
She took her familiar seat, as he sternly explained his expectations. Her task for the afternoon was to write an essay on what had been so compelling that she’d zoned out of his lesson. He had other things to do, so would be back in two hours to read her work.
On hearing this, she’d stammered a single question.
“M..must I write everything, Sir?”
“Everything, young lady.”
And then without another word, he left, closing the classroom door behind him.
She had spent the first 10 minutes alone utterly conflicted. Surely she couldn’t tell him the whole truth of what she’d been dreaming about – it was far too filthy. But what would she write instead? She suddenly felt very transparent, as if he had already read her like a book. She was sure he already knew that some kind of erotic fantasies were involved, even just through her giddy responses to his questions. If she made up something, she knew she’d just come across as silly and lame, nowhere near the adventurous young adult she believed herself to be.
Perhaps, she pondered, honesty really was the best policy. To admit spanking turned her on, and how she fantasised about him putting her over his knee almost every night, as she stroked herself to sleep.
So she had begun writing.
A couple of hours later, on his return, she’d handed her pages over, demurely and respectfully. He had sat down behind his own desk, and begun to read what she’d written, wordlessly and impassively.
Whilst she sat in trembling silence, awaiting his verdict.
* * *
Her essay went like this:
I have something to admit to you, Sir. I fantasise about you.
I fantasise about you being strict with me. I imagined it only last night, how you noticed my lack of inattention in class, my pen doodling aimlessly rather than scribbling studiously.
In the interests of full disclosure, I include the image I was drawing in class this morning.
As you can see, the scene depicts all 12 of our class bending over at the front of the room. I have drawn us all from behind, with our skirts lifted and our panties pulled right down, pooled around our ankles. You’ll note our socks were still pulled up high to the tops of our calves, as I’m sure you’ll agree, there’s no excuse for slovenliness.
You’ll see twelve bare bottoms staring out from the page. I have to confess that in a study period earlier this afternoon I embellished my original scribble to add additional accuracy, drawing the hairstyle of each of my classmates, so the odd lock of hair is the only aspect of identifiable individuality visible from behind their legs as they touch their toes.
I am there too, of course. My own legs parted, a few subtle pen strokes depicting the folds of my slit. I drew myself that way because in my fantasy, that’s how I imagine you wanting me.
I’ve drawn you too, Sir. You’re standing behind us, surveying our row of a dozen cute bare bottoms. You’re holding a long thick wooden ruler in your right hand – because we are all going to be spanked.
I should explain that I drew you with a ruler because that’s what I use on myself when I’m home all alone, when I imagine you spanking me.
You might also appreciate the fact that in my reverie, I imagined a whole backstory to this scene. Would you care to know how we all came to be bending over at the front of the class, with our bare bottoms on display?
Yes, I think I should explain.
I was imagining that you’d noticed how the concentration levels of our class had been waning. How our expressions had become dreamy and distracted. Understandably, this had displeased you, and we all should certainly have known better. After all, we are the most senior pupils in the school.
So you had decided to confront the issue with your characteristic candour. And we had arrived in class to find a single sheet of paper on our desks. You began to address us directly.
“I have a question for you all, class, And I want you to think about it very carefully.”
You turned to the blackboard, and began to write something slowly.
M A S
I wonder if you could feel the weight of a dozen eyes on your cute backside. Lingering admiringly.
M A S T U R
There were chuckles and tittering as what you were slowly writing become apparent – and then inevitable, to everyone’s general amazement.
M A S T U R B A T I O N
“How many of you masturbate whilst thinking about me?” you asked us starkly.
A few shrieks of surprise were followed by nervous giggles. But no one dared break the subsequent silence.
“Well, since no one will admit to it, I’m going to have to line you all up at the front of the class, and check inside your panties.”
Your threat provoked gasps.
“Since I wouldn’t expect any pupil to attend my class with wet panties, I can only assume anyone I find with a mess in their underwear has been remembering what they get up to at night as I was writing on the blackboard.”
“So, before I inspect you all, and determine the truth, I shall offer you all one last chance to confess.”
“If I am the subject of your fantasies, and you masturbate whilst thinking of me, you may write out the nature of your fantasy on the page in front of you.”
“If you have nothing to confess, and I discover the insides of your panties are dry, you may assert on your page that you do not fantasise about me, and nothing further will happen.”
“If you fail to confess, and I discover your panties are actually soaked, I shall remove you from my class, and you will have the pleasure of old Mr Barnaby’s tutorage instead.”
You felt that was a much more threatening sanction than spanking the offending girl’s bottom. I think you know many of us lie awake in bed stroking to exactly that disciplinary eventuality. And so you sought to make use of that.
“If you do confess, you will be put over my knee and immediately spanked. As clearly what you crave is a good hard spanking on your bare bottom.”
“You have 5 minutes to write your response. Then your inspections will begin…”
By this point, I’m sure you’re intensely curious about what I would have written. So let me tell you…
Sometimes, when I get home before anybody else, I go straight to my room. I don’t even change out of my uniform, I pick up the thick wooden ruler I keep on my desk, and bend over. I imagine your deep, stern voice scolding me, telling me that I’m going to be spanked. Our school rules are strict and very clear, skirts will be raised and underwear lowered. So that’s exactly what I do, I bare my bottom in the little erotic theatre of my own bedroom.
I hope my candour isn’t too embarrassing for you, Sir. But you did ask me to include everything.
I hold my ruler behind me, raising it up as far as I can – before I bring it down on my poor little bum with a dramatic smack. I imagine it’s you who is spanking me, Sir. I know you smack hard, but also that it’s for my own good.
After I’ve given myself a dozen hard smacks, I place my free hand underneath me, and rub myself in urgent circles whilst I bring the ruler down, repeatedly, until I feel I can’t take anymore. Then I imagine being spread and inspected, I know regular inspections are a vital aspect of any good disciplinary regime.
When you’ve examined me, you send me to stand in the corner, placing the ruler between my sore pink cheeks. Just at the right angle so the edge of the ruler parts my swollen pussy lips, collecting the sticky dew that drips from me. I stand in the corner with my arms folded behind my back and the ruler jutting out from between my sore pink cheeks Sir, and I think of you.
That’s what I do when I’m alone, Sir. I spank myself until my bottom is hot and stinging, and imagine it’s you who is disciplining me. I’m sure the other girls would have similar stories, but I’ll let them speak for themselves. Perhaps they’ll find themselves seated where I’m sitting now soon, telling you their stories.
But I was also imagining what happened next, after you’d read our confessions.
There would have to be spankings. Long, hard, painful spankings on the bare bottom for every one of us. I imagined myself bending over at the end of the line, my skirt lifted, my messy panties already tugged down to the floor. You had already moved down the line, splaying our bums to inspect our excitement. Now we were being dragged from the line one by one, to the lone chair you’d placed at the front of the classroom.
I imagined peeping back on the unfolding scene through the narrow gap between my own slightly parted thighs. It was enough to see each one of my classmates being put across your knee. Once skirts were flipped up, and bottoms bared, I imagined you spanking each girl with the wooden ruler.
I imagined each one of my classmates kicking and squealing childishly as they got their thoroughly deserved spankings. You would spank each one to tears, then lead her back to her original place in the line. You’d tuck her skirt into her waist, and fold her arms behind her back so she couldn’t rub. Then she’d stand there sobbing and sniffling, and her bright pink cheeks displayed for your appreciation.
Eventually, it would be my turn. I’d feel your hand grip my arm, dragging me upright, then pulling me towards the spanking chair. Before I knew it, you’d have put me over your knee.
There would be the usual cursory bottom inspection, of course, tugging my cheeks apart to ascertain how excited I was. Whereupon you’d see my bare slit glisten, conspicuously and disgracefully.
But my spanking would be different from all the others. I would take my spanking stoically, impressing you with my grown-up self-control. When it was all over, I’d be the only one standing in the line not crying. Standing proudly with my red bottom on display, a glistening wetness just visible between my legs.
So, now you know, Sir. That was what I was daydreaming. This has been my confession. Know now that I’m sitting in a little puddle of my own excitement. I must commend you, this assignment has been a most effective means of discipline. Now I see what I deserve with absolute clarity.
* * *
He said nothing when he had finished reading. He remained seated behind his desk, motionless, almost statuesque, not even acknowledging her and the filthy fantasies she’d written, or the obscene accompanying cartoon. It was as if the shock of her sordid behaviour had petrified him. And so they both sat there in silence, her heart thumping in her chest.
All she could do was watch and wait, studying him intently for even the tiniest clue to what he might be thinking. Was he disgusted by what she’d confessed? And now considering whether to throw her out of his class? Or was he on the verge of abruptly standing, to haul his chair to the front of the classroom? She might only be seconds away from being grasped by the wrist, and put over his knee. She throbbed at the very thought.
Then, as she watched him, she noticed something. How his expression had subtly changed. He was no longer focused on her pages, but was now gazing idly at some indeterminate point far beyond. A visceral thrill ran through her as she realised what that meant.
Sir was daydreaming.
Unseen in his reverie, she sat in her own little sticky puddle, and smiled.
Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.
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