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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

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schoolgirl

Ups and Downs: Part 2

This is the second part of a two part story, part one is here.



* * 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…

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
head, 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

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

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Control

A spanking story

Headmaster Thaddeus Winklethorpe bustled down the corridor, his rubicund face set in a mask of fixated fury, unstoppable as an avenging angel.

Doors seemed to throw themselves open before him without so much as a touch of his hand. As his ominous shadow sped across the windows of nearby classrooms, eyes widened and mouths gawped. A fearsome cane swung in his right hand, like some ancient sword of justice. Would-be miscreants squirmed in their seats, the sight of the rampaging headmaster meant school rules had been broken – and soon, certainly, the perpetrator would receive their comeuppance. There would be no escape.

The tip-off had been anonymous, but quite specific. Mischief was planned in classroom 18A, the elegant handwriting confessed. 2.30pm – the last lesson of the afternoon. Bring the cane.

He could hear the ongoing kerfuffle well before he saw it. The unmistakable shrill shrieks of unsupervised schoolgirls, a sound rarely ever seen, so quickly silenced were they by disapproving adult scowls. If they wanted to screech and squeal, Headmaster Winklethorpe would happily oblige, they could howl all they liked with their panties around their ankles and hot pink stripes across their behinds.

The corridor’s final set of double-doors flung themselves apart, as the Headmaster seared towards classroom 18A with the incandescent inevitably of a harbinger comet. Through the window he could see it was Miss Bernadine’s Sixth Form class, but their teacher was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was a rowdy ruckus that called into question the right of those involved to call themselves young ladies. Little girls would have been shamefaced had they behaved as badly.

In that moment before the classroom door thundered open, he saw everything. Every one of the students was gabbling excitedly, some sitting in little cliques upon their desks, others absent-mindedly exchanging messages, tossing scrunched-up pages across the room in long parabolic arcs. And at the front of them all, Prefect Polly Alton sat daydreaming in her teacher’s chair, her shoulders thrown back as if she hadn’t a care in the world, her feet impudently resting on the grand wooden desk…

The headmaster burst into the room to the sound of panicking squeals, as if he were a predatory beast pouncing into a scattering herd. In an instant, the unruly commotion gave way to the scraping of furniture and the clamorous thunder of footsteps, as the students scurried back to their seats. Within eight seconds, everyone was standing respectfully in silence, their faces pictures of cherubic innocence. Everyone in their proper place, as if the disgraceful disorder Mr Winklethorpe had just glimpsed had been a figment of an overactive imagination, and had never really happened.

But then there was the detritus on the classroom floor, the obscene doodles on the blackboard, the dishevelled uniforms and developing blushes. The evidence of the class’s shenanigans was clear to see. He surveyed the shameful scene, and his verdict was succinct and unequivocal…

“Disgraceful!” he castigated, in a deep gravelly voice that caused the tummies of those listening to flutter and tremble.

When discipline became necessary, Thaddeus Winklethorpe was a man of few words. No speech was ever necessary, if one of his pupils deserved punishment, they already knew what they’d done wrong  – and its consequences. The school’s policy of Collective Responsibility was quite clear: those who misbehaved together would be spanked together.

The Headmaster turned to Polly, who shirked from his penetrating scowl like one dodging a gorgon’s gaze. As one of the school prefects, she had been left in charge, a responsibility she had happily neglected. He informed her she could watch what was going to happen next, because she’d be getting her own whacking in his study afterwards. Polly just gasped.

He addressed the whole class next, pronouncing their sentence. Six of the best on the bare bottom. The twelve girls present knew the painful price of dissent, and nodded agreeably at their penalty.

“Pair up. Panties off. And bend over your desks!”

These were familiar instructions, the standard disciplinary procedure when a whole group had misbehaved. It meant that each girl should pair up with her neighbour, then lift her skirt and tuck it into her waist, and pull her panties right down to her ankles and off. Once removed the white school knickers would be quickly rolled up, its owner would open her mouth and have her underwear placed between her front teeth.

Winklethorpe expected punishments to be conducted in silence, and had found numerous benefits in using a miscreant’s panties as her own gag. For one, it helped prevent pointless pleading and snivelling beforehand. It also helped muffle the cries that might otherwise occur as bottoms were whacked. And the gags certainly helped preserve the solemnity of the occasion afterwards, when those punished would be expected to remain in position with their sore bottoms on display.

The Headmaster watched as the girls hurried to their task, tapping the tip of his cane rhythmically on the front desk, whispering the countdown.

10 … 9 … 8 …

Once the first girl had her panties placed in her mouth, she would repay the compliment, baring her neighbour’s bottom and gagging her with her own knickers. Then both girls would hurry back to bend over the front of their own desks, compliantly placing their hands on the tops of their heads. Before the Winklethorpe had concluded his countdown, twelve pairs of quivering buttocks were presented for his inspection.

Polly did not escape this ignominy, but she had to pull down her own panties, roll them up and put them in her own mouth.

The Headmaster stepped forward to the first row of desks, tapping his cane against the first girl’s bottom, before delivering six quick hard whacks. The recipient gasped and moaned into her impromptu gag, but took her punishment in good grace, keeping her legs apart and her feet planted on the floor.

He moved to the neighbouring girl, administering her six strokes in less than twenty seconds. The sting he imparted, however, would linger much longer.

There were two more girls in the front row, he chastised them both without speaking, the only sounds in the classroom the nervous breathing of its occupants, the occasional creaking of desks, and the regular swoosh-swick-smacking of the disciplinarian’s cane.

Those in the third row at the back of the class had the dubious privilege of waiting in dread anticipation the longest, listening intently to the little moans as their classmates were caned, as the whacking noises grew closer. The glistening sheen between their legs suggested some found the experience rather exciting indeed.

The final stroke stung the bottom of the twelfth member of class, and silence resumed. Headmaster Winklethorpe returned to the front of the room to survey his handiwork. A dozen striped bottoms, pink blushes already beginning to radiate outwards, like heat from the bars of a filament fire.

The Headmaster told them all they would stay in position until the final school bell rang. That meant forty more excruciating minutes, to be spent bent over their desks with their sore bottoms on display. In absolute silence, naturally. Hands would remain on their heads, and there would definitely be no rubbing! He reminded them that they could be seen from the corridor, and passers-by would be all too happy to report them if they were seen or heard violating the post-spanking rules. Remember girls: collective responsibility still applied, so if one broke the silence or rubbed her bottom, they would all be caned again.

Polly looked over the pink bums of her classmates with quiet satisfaction, the panties in her mouth masking the slightest of smirks. Then she felt the crook of the Mr Winklethorpe’s cane hook around her upper right arm, and a tug towards the door. It was Polly’s turn now, she’d be taken to the Headmaster’s study in the manner reserved for the very naughtiest girls, dragged through the school corridors by the crook of the cane, with her white knickers visible for all to see between her lips. And once there, she’d be touching her toes for much more than just six of the best…


At least, that’s how Polly had imagined it, as she’d been daydreaming at the front of the class, her feet resting insouciantly upon the desk, as her peers noisily entertained themselves around her.

Polly had written the note inviting Mr Winklethorpe to stumble across her classmates’ anarchic rowdiness. She’d written it a couple of hours ago, just after Miss Bernadine had told her that she’d been called away for a late-notice meeting, and so would have to miss the last lesson of the afternoon. As a senior prefect, Polly had been put in charge, providing an opportunity that seemed far too good to miss.

Polly looked up at the classroom clock. 2.30pm. He’d be here soon, she smiled. She might even hear the approach of his thundering footsteps. He always took reports of mischief very seriously indeed.


Headmaster Thaddeus Winklethorpe shambled down the corridor, his rubicund face made even pinker by these unaccustomed exertions. The tatty trailing edges of his long academic gown contributed to his eccentric appearance, more a shuffling black cloud than an avenging embodiment of justice. As he approached, would-be miscreants knew they had little to fear, and as he receded, they chuckled at his impotence.

The tip-off had been anonymous, but quite specific. Mischief was planned in classroom 18A. 2.30pm. Bring the cane.

Winklethorpe could hear the ongoing kerfuffle well before he saw it. The unmistakable shrill shrieks of unsupervised schoolgirls, this was all very disappointing. He resolved to have a quiet word with Miss Bernadine later.

He peered through the glass of the door at the unruly Sixth Form class. Their teacher was nowhere to be seen, just a prefect sitting in her place, seemingly oblivious to the rowdy ruckus all around her. He cleared his throat, spluttering slightly,  and gripped the door handle, striding into the classroom with as much gravitas as he could muster.

“Now… now… girls!!!” he stammered, trying to make himself heard over the continuing racket.

The heads of those in the classroom turned slowly to see who’d entered, shoulders shrugging on recognition. One by one, they ceased their own excited conversations and reluctantly returned to their seats. The anarchic hubbub dying away to the murmur of sniggering whispers.  

“W… who’s in charge here?” the headmaster mumbled.

Good question, Polly found herself thinking, before standing up authoritatively.

When she’d been first been admitted to this school, Polly had found the Headmaster quite intimidating. But time, it seemed, had worn down and wearied poor Mr Winklethorpe. The man who’d once been the imperious head of the school, a bustling, inspiring, terrifying presence, was now bumbling and innocuous. In the seven years she had known him, he had dwindled as she had flourished.

Mr Winklethorpe eyed Polly with evident dismay. A look Polly returned when she noticed he hadn’t even brought his cane.

“It was rather raucous in here, Polly. Please try to keep your classmates under control. I’m sure you all have plenty of work to be getting on with.”

Polly tried her best not to scowl. This wasn’t at all how she had imagined his arrival. In front of her, she could already see her classmates exchanging little grins. But by now they should really have been bent over their desks with their panties between their teeth. What was this school coming to? Somebody should do something.

“I have to admit, I’m very disappointed. Please see me in my office after school, Polly.”

Polly’s jaw dropped, and Mr Winklethorpe shuffled out of the classroom without saying another word. After he’d closed the door behind him, a ripple of giggles spread throughout the room, they could almost have been mocking her.


Polly eventually encouraged her classmates back to work, and as they scribbled, Polly began her scheming. Snitching on the class had clearly failed miserably, she’d clearly overestimated his authority. But perhaps, that opened new possibilities. Exciting ones. Potentially very exciting, in fact.

So when the school bell rang, Polly sauntered to the Headmaster’s office with a spring in her step. Drawing a deep breath she composed herself, and knocked. His weary voice bade her enter.

Polly opened the door timidly, closing it gingerly behind her. Yet she spoke up first, having already determined to steer the direction of their conversation.

“Am I in trouble, Sir?” she asked coquettishly, her hands crossed at her waist, her eyes fixated on her own feet.

“Er…” mumbled Mr Winklethorpe, trying to remember the opening words of the little speech on authority and responsibility he tended to recite when prefects fell short of expectations.

“Oh Sir! My whole class got into trouble because of me. I’m so sorry! Do I have to get my bad little bottom smacked?”

She raised her eyes, risking a glance at her Headmaster to assess the impact of her words. On top of the jumble of papers on his desk, she could see the note she’d written. At the time, being put in charge had seemed too good an opportunity to miss. Now it was becoming clear that what was really needed was a bit of nudging in a more intriguing direction.

“Um… well…”

Mr Winklethorpe found himself lost for words.

“I’m so, so sorry Sir! I know I should have kept the class under control. I know discipline is so important…”

In the absence of appropriate words, her Headmaster found himself just nodding along in agreement.

“Oh Sir, won’t you put me over your knee? And give me the spanking I deserve with your big strong hand. On my bare bottom?”

There are three possible responses to such an audacious question. Yes. No. And stunned silence.

Mr Winklethorpe didn’t say no. In fact, his gawping mouth didn’t say anything at all.

Polly took that as permission to proceed, reaching under her skirt to tug down her panties to her thighs. She paused for effect, then wiggled her hips provocatively until her underwear had slipped to the floor.

“Ooops…” she said coyly.

Stepping out of her underwear, which she left conspicuously discarded where it had fallen, Polly fetched one of the high-backed chairs used by visitors and placed it in the middle of the room.

She beckoned him to stand, and then escorted him by the arm, taking him from behind his desk to sit on the seat she’d chosen.

“I’ve been such a naughty girl, Sir.” Polly said, with the earnest conviction of one who really meant it.

“Well, er… yes, you have…” confirmed her Headmaster with growing certainty.

Polly lurched forward before he could change his mind, bending over his lap, effectively pinning him in place, right where she wanted him.

“Lift my skirt, Sir. I know what has to happen to naughty girls.”

He did as he was told, hesitantly pinching the hem with his fingers, then lifting it higher and higher at Polly’s insistence until her whole bottom was bared.

“Oh Sir!” she exclaimed dramatically when she was fully exposed, helpfully spreading her legs slightly to allow a tantalising glimpse of her most intimate places.

“Naughty girls must be spanked hard on their bare bottoms. Isn’t that right, Sir?”

Admiring Polly’s smooth pert cheeks, Mr Winklethorpe found it impossible to disagree with her assessment. That she had indeed been very naughty. And she did indeed deserve a good hard spanking.

“Spank me now, Sir! Please!” Polly implored.

Thaddeus Winklethorpe might almost have been mesmerised. He found himself raising his hand above Polly’s pale cheeks as if under the control of some mysterious presence. He struggled to remember the last time he had spanked one of his pupils. Times and customs had changed during his tenure here. What it a coincidence that classes seemed be more unruly now? That the girls seemed less respectful, less focussed and poorly behaved. Perhaps this prefect was right, perhaps it was time to bring back some old-fashioned discipline. This could be an experiment, he reasoned. Yes. He would give this girl the spanking she deserved, and evaluate the effectiveness of his discipline afterwards.

On his lap, Polly held her breath, waiting for the first stinging slap to land across her cheeks…

Then the Headmaster’s palm fell, landing on Polly’s bottom as a good-natured pat.

Polly gasped in surprise at the timidness of the blow, she barely felt its impact at all. So she quickly encouraged her Headmaster to deliver another spank. But the next effort was barely any harder, more an innocuous tap than disciplinary smack.

“Harder, Sir!” she encouraged, “I’ve been so very naughty.”

Polly tolerated a dozen more ineffectual pats before her patience became exhausted. Then she dropped the coy little girl act, and decided to talk more candidly, adult to adult.

“Look, Sir. This isn’t working. It’s not hurting enough. It’s supposed to be a punishment. You’re supposed to be giving me a sore bottom.”

“Oh um, goodness, I am sorry! I will try harder…” Winklethorpe replied apologetically, feeling more than a little foolish.

But the next dozen spanks were barely any harder. Now Polly was growing increasingly exasperated by his ineptitude. It felt like this was the second time today her Headmaster had foiled her meticulous plans with his incompetence.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” she said at last, “This is just embarrassing.”

Polly stood up and purposefully marched towards the wall where a few canes were dangling. She could see little ridges of dust on the top of each crook, clearly these implements didn’t get used much. They were probably only here as antique decorations, more hipster coffee shop than kinky dungeon. She picked up a cane and whipped it through the air experimentally, it made an incredibly satisfying swish.

“Here Sir, take this – and hold it like this…”

Polly could barely believe that she was giving her own Headmaster a lesson on how to wield a cane. Once she was satisfied with his basic technique, she adjusted his stance, so he was standing just the right distance away from her, and then bent over in front of him, lifting her own skirt to the small of her back. Then Polly shuffled backwards until she could feel the cane resting flat against the lower half of her bare buttocks.

“That’s it, Sir. Now – pull your arm back, keep the cane parallel to the floor – and deliver the first whack.”

There was a swish, then Polly felt the sting of the rod’s impact. Not bad.

“Again Sir, harder this time!”

The next strike was indeed louder and stingier, that was a good sign. So Polly decided to mix some goading into her encouragement.

“And again Sir. When you discovered us this afternoon, I thought you’d spank us all there and then! Could you imagine that? Thirteen bare bottoms, all with pink stripes from your cane…”

The subsequent whack was the best yet, it almost took her breath away.

“Oh Sir! Do you find it exciting to smack the poor little bottoms of naughty young girls?”

That comment seemed to provoke a particularly sizzling stroke. Polly could feel a burning sensation spreading across her bottom.

“Oh Sir. Is this making you hard, Sir?” she goaded, parting her legs slightly to reveal her own glistening excitement.

That prompted another intensely satisfying whack. Polly looked across at Mr Winklethorpe, her eyes immediately drawn to the conspicuous bulge at the front of his trousers. She reached back, momentarily pulling her buttocks apart, flashing the crinkled pink ring of her bottom hole and the shiny folds beneath.

“Make the last one hard Sir! I’m such a naughty girl!”

His sixth stroke didn’t disappoint her, Polly felt its echoes tingling in her clitoris.

And that was six of the best, Polly concluded. She reached between her legs, stroking herself to collect some of her arousal, before standing to her full height and brazenly dabbing a little patch of her musky goo on his septum, right between his nostrils.

“Oh Sir…” she teased coyly as she straightened his tie, “Just smell what you’ve done to me…”

Now she could see his eyes blazing, with a coruscating intensity that had been quite absent when he’d shambled into her classroom earlier this afternoon. I think I might just have his full attention now, thought Polly. It was time for her manifesto.

“I think there just isn’t enough discipline imposed in this school any more. Things are getting out of control. We need to take back control, don’t we Sir?”

Mr Winklethorpe nodded vigorously in agreement. His prefect was just articulating what he’d long been thinking. Too many of the senior girls had indeed lost their respect for authority. Almost every day his staff reported impudent high-jinks, of gangs of silly young ladies running amok. Strict discipline was clearly required, wrongdoers needed to learn that misbehaviour had a price, and that price was a sore bottom.

“Do you know, Sir, all the outrageously naughty things that go on at this school behind your back?”

He was forced to admit he did not.

Polly recited a few provocative examples with relish. Like the unnamed Sixth Former whose boyfriend had given her a butt plug, and who had spent today wearing the plug under her uniform. Her feat of daring had already been approvingly whispered half-way round the common room.

Then, there was the elusive and secretive Drink Club, (first rule of Drink Club: do not talk about Drink Club), with their hidden stash of beers and spirits. Or the so-called Homework Factory, a cadre of the cleverest with an entrepreneurial spirit, they’d complete any assignment, to any deadline – price on application.

“Perhaps, we might come to some kind of arrangement, Sir?”

The Headmaster nodded encouragingly, intrigued to hear the prefect’s suggestion.

“I propose bringing instances of rule-breaking to your attention, Sir. Those identified will, of course, need to be punished, so all such individuals will be summoned here to your office.”

He nodded his agreement; what Polly was proposing was eminently sensible. School rules were worthless without the ability to enforce them, and what his prefect seemed to be offering was the covert intelligence needed to uncover the mischief, and bring those who thought themselves untouchable to justice. Some might call her a tattle-tale, or a snitch, or an informer – but they were such pejorative terms! She was merely helping to ensure the good name of the school was respected. And what could possibly be wrong with that?

“I further propose all rule-breakers be spanked on their bare bottoms. Minor offences by a hand-spanking over the knee. Moderate offences by the wooden ruler whilst touching their toes. And serious offences by caning whilst bending over your desk.”

Again, her Headmaster concurred, that sounded like a perfectly appropriate menu of punishments.

“I also propose that I be present to witness all spankings. As I’m sure you’ll agree, a female presence will help make intimate discipline less awkward. Likewise I suggest I be made solely responsible for the pulling down of panties and the placement of said garment in the mouths of those to be punished.”

Her Headmaster nodded once more, a female presence was an entirely reasonable suggestion. Placing panties in the mouth was a fascinating proposition, after all, those being spanked should endure their punishment in silence. Clearly his prefect had thought all this through, she did seem to be very knowledgeable when it came to matters of discipline. He wondered where she’d learnt it all.

Polly took a deep breath as subtly as she could manage, and hoped her poker face would hold for the final and most extravagant term of her proposal.

“And I also propose that the administering of spankings is shared between us, fifty-fifty. That is, every other girl who finds herself in your office will be disciplined by me.”

Thaddeus Winklethorpe had to smile at her bravado. The girl was certainly bold, and she pushed a hard bargain. But as he considered the details of her proposal he realised the strength of her negotiating position. Put bluntly, without her information, no miscreants would ever be caught. Fifty percent of some spanked bottoms was a much more alluring prospect than one hundred percent of no spanked bottoms. Besides, he quite liked the idea of watching this headstrong young lady spanking her classmates, he could watch it all sitting behind his desk. It would certainly help conceal his inevitable intumescence.

Polly watched him ponder her proposal, and held her breath.

After what seemed like an age, he extended his hand.

“Agreed, young lady.”

Polly accepted his handshake with a grin and a resolute grip of her own. He did have lovely strong hands, she’d see he put them to good use.

“Excellent, Sir! Then we shall take back control of this school together! I think you’ll find I can be very imaginative…”

And as if to emphasise her point, she ran her fingertip down the unseemly bulge at the front of his trousers. It was at that very moment Polly realised just how much power she now wielded. The Headmaster, and by implication the whole school, was now – quite literally –  under her thumb.

The prospect of her new power was thrillingly intoxicating. With it, Polly knew she could now denounce anyone in the school, and guilty or not, they would end up here, whimpering as she pulled down their panties, their eyes pleading silently as their own knickers were placed in their mouths. And if any of the silly little girls cried, she’d dab away their tears with their own underwear afterwards.

Perhaps she should insist on inspections too. Bend over and touch your toes, girl. Legs apart. Oh… what’s this? You’re soaking wet! Filthy girl! Well, if the prospect of a spanking excites you that much, you may have double.

Oh yes, she liked that idea. How the offender would moan plaintively against her gag when she heard her sentence had been doubled, begging for a chance to explain herself, but knowing deep down the shameful evidence was be incontrovertible.

Polly could already imagine putting the naughty over her knee, or making them do the bend-over dance to the beat of her ruler. She could almost hear their snivelling as she spanked their bare bottoms. And how exciting it would be to wield the cane, and paint rows of hot pink stripes onto trembling cheeks. To luxuriate in the pleas of the peasants as they prostrated themselves before their new queen.

Yes, telling tales was rather treacherous, but weren’t rules a good thing? Surely restoring order to the school was a noble endeavour. Didn’t that make her one of the good guys now?

As for those lingering traces of guilt – well, thought Polly, there’s no better cure for a guilty conscience than a well-smacked bottom.

“Now Sir…” she said teasingly, shepherding him back to sit on the high-backed chair.

“Your hand-spanking technique is quite atrocious. I think we’d both benefit from some practice…”  

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.

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@spankingtheatre 2016

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

You’re welcome to reblog and share.

In Class


EN CLASSE

image
image

Image: The Wrong Word by Percy Tarrant c1900

I

Ne dessinez pas au tableau noir les parties sexuelles de la sous-maîtresse, surtout si elle vous les a montrées confidentiellement.

Do not draw the private parts of the school teacher on the blackboard, especially if they were shown to you in confidence.


II

Quand vous venez de vous branlez sous le pupitre, n’essuyez pas votre doigt mouillé dans les cheveux de votre voisine, à moins qu’elle vous en prie.

When you wank under your desk, do not wipe your wet finger in the hair of your neighbour, unless she begs you.


III

Si vous trouvez plus commode d’aller vous masturber aux water-closets, demandez simplement à sortir; ne dites pas pourquoi.

If you find it more comfortable to masturbate in the toilets, just ask to go; do not say why.


IV

Si l’on vous demande ce que c’était que Pompée, ne répondez pas: «Ça devait être une pine»; et si l’on vous demande quel personnage historique vous auriez voulu être, ne dites pas en clignant de l’œil: «Je voudrais toujours être Persée». Ce genre de facéties ferait rire vos camarades mais ne ferait pas rire la maîtresse.

If you are asked who Pompey was, do not answer, “He had to be a cock”; and if you are asked which historical figure you would want to be, do not say in a wink: “I have always wanted to be pierced” (Perseus). These kind of jokes will make your classmates laugh but will not amuse your school mistress.


V

Ne dites pas que la Mer Rouge est ainsi nommée parce qu’elle a la forme d’un con; ni que la Floride est la pine de l’Amerique, ni que la Jungfrau ne mérite pas son nom depuis que les alpinistes montent dessus. Ce seraient des observations ingénieuses, mais déplacées dans la bouche d’une enfant.

Do not say that the Red Sea is so named because it is shaped like a cunt; or that Florida is the cock of America, or that the Jungfrau does not deserve its name since mountaineees climb on top of it. These would be ingenious observations, but not from the mouth of a child.


VI

Ne mouillez pas votre pouce ni dans votre bouche ni dans votre con pour tourner les pages.

Do not wet your thumb in your mouth or in your cunt to turn pages.


VII

Si l’on vous dit que l’homme se dinstingue du singe en ce qu’il n’a pas de queue, ne protestez pas qu’il en a une.

If you are told that Man is distinguished from the monkey by having no tail, do not protest that he has one.


VIII

Parmi les principaux verbes de la quatrième conjugaison, il est inutile de citer «foutre»: je fous, je foutais, je foutrai, que je foutisse, foutant, foutu.

La conjugaison de ce verbe est intéressante mais on vous grondera plutôt de la connaître que de l’ignorer.

Among the main verbs’ fourth conjugation, it is unnecessary to mention "to fuck”: I fuck, I fucked, I will fuck, which I fuck, fucking, fucked.

The conjugation of the verb is interesting but your knowledge will be scolded rather than your ignorance.


IX

Si l’addition qu’on vous donne à faire produit le nombre 69, ne vous roulez pas de rire comme une petite imbécile.

If the sum you are given has the number 69 as its product, do not burst out laughing like a little fool.


X

Si votre professeur vous demande une plume, ne feignez pas de croire qu’il vous prie de lui sucer la queue.

If your teacher asks you for a pen, do not pretend that he is begging you to suck his cock.


XI

Dans les petits thèmes anglais de la première année, on trouve parfois des phrases naïves:

«J’ai un joli petit chat. Tu as un gros bouton. Il ou elle aime les langues. Ma sœur a un bon casse-noisettes. Voulez-vous une feuille de rose? Le hussard a tiré deux coups. Je cherche les haricots de mes gousses. Le maquereau a une belle queue. Mon frère a des grues et mon père des vaches.»

In the simple English themes of the first year, one will sometimes find innocent phrases:

“I have a pretty little pussy. You have a big knob. He or she loves tongues. My sister has good nutcrackers. Do you want pink leaves (anilingus)? The Hussar fired two shots (of cum). I am looking for the beans from my pod (lesbian). Mackerel has a beautiful tail (cock). My brother has some cranes (hookers) and my father some cows (prostitutes).”


XII

Ne vous avisez pas de traduire: «I have a  pretty little cunt, You have a big clit. She likes to be tongued, etc…»

You are advised not to translate: “I have a pretty little cunt, You have a big clit. She likes to be tongued, etc … ”


XIII

Si votre sous-maîtresse vous emmène dans sa chambre et vous prend entre ses bras avec un trouble extrême, relevez vos jupes sans affectation et guidez sa main hésitante. Cela la soulagera d’un grand poids.

If your schoolmistress leads you into her room and takes you in her arms with extreme difficulty, casually raise your skirts and guide her trembling hand. This will help relieve a great burden.


XIV

N’abordez pas le premier jour une grande élève quand en lui demandant si elle se branle, parce: 1) que la question est inutile: elle se branle certainement, et 2) pourrait être tentée de mentir.

Emmenez-la secrètement au fond du jardin et livrez-vous devant elle à vos petites habitudes. Votre exemple lui fera honte de sa dissimulation.

On the first day do not approach a prominent student and ask her if she masturbates, because: 1) the question is pointless: she certainly does wank, and 2) she might be tempted to lie.

Lead her secretly to the bottom of the garden and demonstrate your little habits in front of her. Your example will make her ashamed of her concealment.


XV

Si l’une de vos aînées se moque de votre jeune âge parce qu’elle a de jolis poils et que vous êtes lisse comme la main, ne la traitez pas d’ours velu, d’Absalon, ni de femme à barbe: mais tirez une leçon de la petite colère que vous ressentirez et souvenez-vous d’être modeste quand vous aurez la motte fournie.

If one of your elders mocks your young age because she has pretty curls and you are as smooth as a hand, do not mock her as a hairy bear, Absalom, or a bearded lady. Instead draw a lesson from the little hurt you feel and remember to be humble when you gain an abundant mound yourself.

[ Table of Contents ] .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . [ Next >> ]

In Class


EN CLASSE

image
image

Image: The Wrong Word by Percy Tarrant c1900

I

Ne dessinez pas au tableau noir les parties sexuelles de la sous-maîtresse, surtout si elle vous les a montrées confidentiellement.

Do not draw the private parts of the school teacher on the blackboard, especially if they were shown to you in confidence.


II

Quand vous venez de vous branlez sous le pupitre, n’essuyez pas votre doigt mouillé dans les cheveux de votre voisine, à moins qu’elle vous en prie.

When you wank under your desk, do not wipe your wet finger in the hair of your neighbour, unless she begs you.


III

Si vous trouvez plus commode d’aller vous masturber aux water-closets, demandez simplement à sortir; ne dites pas pourquoi.

If you find it more comfortable to masturbate in the toilets, just ask to go; do not say why.


IV

Si l’on vous demande ce que c’était que Pompée, ne répondez pas: «Ça devait être une pine»; et si l’on vous demande quel personnage historique vous auriez voulu être, ne dites pas en clignant de l’œil: «Je voudrais toujours être Persée». Ce genre de facéties ferait rire vos camarades mais ne ferait pas rire la maîtresse.

If you are asked who Pompey was, do not answer, “He had to be a cock”; and if you are asked which historical figure you would want to be, do not say in a wink: “I have always wanted to be pierced” (Perseus). These kind of jokes will make your classmates laugh but will not amuse your school mistress.


V

Ne dites pas que la Mer Rouge est ainsi nommée parce qu’elle a la forme d’un con; ni que la Floride est la pine de l’Amerique, ni que la Jungfrau ne mérite pas son nom depuis que les alpinistes montent dessus. Ce seraient des observations ingénieuses, mais déplacées dans la bouche d’une enfant.

Do not say that the Red Sea is so named because it is shaped like a cunt; or that Florida is the cock of America, or that the Jungfrau does not deserve its name since mountaineees climb on top of it. These would be ingenious observations, but not from the mouth of a child.


VI

Ne mouillez pas votre pouce ni dans votre bouche ni dans votre con pour tourner les pages.

Do not wet your thumb in your mouth or in your cunt to turn pages.


VII

Si l’on vous dit que l’homme se dinstingue du singe en ce qu’il n’a pas de queue, ne protestez pas qu’il en a une.

If you are told that Man is distinguished from the monkey by having no tail, do not protest that he has one.


VIII

Parmi les principaux verbes de la quatrième conjugaison, il est inutile de citer «foutre»: je fous, je foutais, je foutrai, que je foutisse, foutant, foutu.

La conjugaison de ce verbe est intéressante mais on vous grondera plutôt de la connaître que de l’ignorer.

Among the main verbs’ fourth conjugation, it is unnecessary to mention "to fuck”: I fuck, I fucked, I will fuck, which I fuck, fucking, fucked.

The conjugation of the verb is interesting but your knowledge will be scolded rather than your ignorance.


IX

Si l’addition qu’on vous donne à faire produit le nombre 69, ne vous roulez pas de rire comme une petite imbécile.

If the sum you are given has the number 69 as its product, do not burst out laughing like a little fool.


X

Si votre professeur vous demande une plume, ne feignez pas de croire qu’il vous prie de lui sucer la queue.

If your teacher asks you for a pen, do not pretend that he is begging you to suck his cock.


XI

Dans les petits thèmes anglais de la première année, on trouve parfois des phrases naïves:

«J’ai un joli petit chat. Tu as un gros bouton. Il ou elle aime les langues. Ma sœur a un bon casse-noisettes. Voulez-vous une feuille de rose? Le hussard a tiré deux coups. Je cherche les haricots de mes gousses. Le maquereau a une belle queue. Mon frère a des grues et mon père des vaches.»

In the simple English themes of the first year, one will sometimes find innocent phrases:

“I have a pretty little pussy. You have a big knob. He or she loves tongues. My sister has good nutcrackers. Do you want pink leaves (anilingus)? The Hussar fired two shots (of cum). I am looking for the beans from my pod (lesbian). Mackerel has a beautiful tail (cock). My brother has some cranes (hookers) and my father some cows (prostitutes).”


XII

Ne vous avisez pas de traduire: «I have a  pretty little cunt, You have a big clit. She likes to be tongued, etc…»

You are advised not to translate: “I have a pretty little cunt, You have a big clit. She likes to be tongued, etc … ”


XIII

Si votre sous-maîtresse vous emmène dans sa chambre et vous prend entre ses bras avec un trouble extrême, relevez vos jupes sans affectation et guidez sa main hésitante. Cela la soulagera d’un grand poids.

If your schoolmistress leads you into her room and takes you in her arms with extreme difficulty, casually raise your skirts and guide her trembling hand. This will help relieve a great burden.


XIV

N’abordez pas le premier jour une grande élève quand en lui demandant si elle se branle, parce: 1) que la question est inutile: elle se branle certainement, et 2) pourrait être tentée de mentir.

Emmenez-la secrètement au fond du jardin et livrez-vous devant elle à vos petites habitudes. Votre exemple lui fera honte de sa dissimulation.

On the first day do not approach a prominent student and ask her if she masturbates, because: 1) the question is pointless: she certainly does wank, and 2) she might be tempted to lie.

Lead her secretly to the bottom of the garden and demonstrate your little habits in front of her. Your example will make her ashamed of her concealment.


XV

Si l’une de vos aînées se moque de votre jeune âge parce qu’elle a de jolis poils et que vous êtes lisse comme la main, ne la traitez pas d’ours velu, d’Absalon, ni de femme à barbe: mais tirez une leçon de la petite colère que vous ressentirez et souvenez-vous d’être modeste quand vous aurez la motte fournie.

If one of your elders mocks your young age because she has pretty curls and you are as smooth as a hand, do not mock her as a hairy bear, Absalom, or a bearded lady. Instead draw a lesson from the little hurt you feel and remember to be humble when you gain an abundant mound yourself.

[ Table of Contents ] .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . [ Next >> ]

I would love a school themed Xmas story :)

An intriguing combination, as schools tend to be closed over Christmas. What did you have in mind?

In the meantime, readers looking for school story with spanked bottoms should enjoy the deviously imaginative Abstract Art, and the luxuriously detailed Ups and Downs

I would love a school themed Xmas story :)

An intriguing combination, as schools tend to be closed over Christmas. What did you have in mind?

In the meantime, readers looking for school story with spanked bottoms should enjoy the deviously imaginative Abstract Art, and the luxuriously detailed Ups and Downs

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…

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…

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?

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Continued in Part 2…




@spankingtheatre 2014

spankingtheatre at gmail dot com

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