Sixteen of the Best

by Sarah Veitch

  Tawny thought about the other history department professors, all five of them older than her, and committed to teaching with a smack to the ear just as easily as a crack of the spine of a history book. Br. Anthony was the youngest ever Dean of St. Matthew's and many of them resented him for it. She was sure they resented her as well. She could guess what their condition was going to be: a secret paddling the same way unruly students were punished behind closed doors. She caught her breath sharply.

  Br. Anthony drew near, leaned over her back, and whispered in her ear, 'I knew you would agree to this, for me.' He kissed her neck and slid his hands down her outstretched body. He gathered up her skirt and teased her clit with his long fingers. She could feel her panties grow damp. She moaned slightly and arched her ass up toward him. 'Ooooh, I could fuck you right now, just like this,' he grunted, thrusting his body hard against hers.

  He stepped back and called loudly, 'You may now enter!'

  The sound of the large oak door swinging open made her stiffen and tense. She wondered who was there, and felt humiliated at being bent across the Dean's desk. She shut her eyes.

  'Miss Williams,' Br. Anthony announced, 'you will now receive your punishment as determined by each of your fellow colleagues. Perhaps then you will learn to exhibit a more humble attitude in front of your superiors.'

  She nervously wondered what would happen next. Br. Anthony approached her delicately and slid a soft round cushion under her stomach, raising her bottom into a beautiful and well-placed target. 'Are we ready to begin, gentlemen?' he asked, gently slapping the leather paddle against his hand.

  'Br. Anthony,' she heard a gravelly voice inquire, 'shouldn't her petticoats be raised?' To her horror, she recognized Br. Frederick's voice, an ancient professor who taught ancient history. He's in for a surprise if he thinks women still wear petticoats, she smiled.

  But her smile didn't last long as Br. Anthony returned to her side, lifting her skirt and trying to bunch it up against the pillow. 'I think it best we remove it altogether,' he added, unzipping the back and sliding it down over her mounted ass. He untied both ankles so he could remove the garment completely and gingerly placed it on the leather couch, careful not to wrinkle it. How could this be any worse, she thought, trying to hold back a tear.

  'And the panties too,' Br. Frederick added sternly.

  Br. Anthony returned and placed his hands over her ass for a fraction of a second, careful not to betray their secret affair to the other brothers. He slid her silky red lace panties down over her butt cheeks and tossed them onto the floor before securing her legs once more.

  'Each brother has elected to bring his own method of punishment,' Br. Anthony remarked, 'and each will be awarded two strokes. That's one dozen all together, a rather light sentence for such a virgin backside. The degree to which they administer the lashes is entirely up to them.'

  She tensed her body in anticipation as Br. Frederick approached her naked bottom. 'You should have been given this a long time ago, girl,' he muttered angrily, then poked her sharply with something long and smooth. It felt like a riding crop with a small leather patch on the end. She braced herself as she felt the end of the crop lightly rub against her ass in soft tapping circles. She stiffened her body, shut her eyes and gritted her teeth as she felt Br. Frederick's body heave upward and heard the soft whistle of the air. The crop came down against her left cheek in a stinging burn and pain spread across her bottom. She jerked her body upward but silently remained tied to the desk.

  'Didn't that smart, missy?' Br. Frederick laughed as he poked at her reddening cheek again. She held back the tears of pain and shame, unsure of whether or not to answer him. 'Well, this one will then!' he shouted as the second lash cut across the same left cheek.

  'Oh!' she screamed, wriggling her body, instinctively trying to rub and cover her burning backside. The pain made her quiver slightly in a sensation of stinging heat. Her eyes filled with tears and she shut them again tightly, trying to force the pain from her mind.

  'Br. Michael, you're next,' Br. Anthony directed, as the younger man with pale blue eyes and long, sandy, shaggy bangs hesitantly approached her from behind.

  Not Br. Michael, she thought to herself as she pictured the quiet young man and her discussing reading material and assignments together in the teacher's lounge. How could he participate in doing this to me?

  Br. Michael borrowed Br. Frederick's crop and without a word gave two fast slaps across her right butt cheek in quick succession. The blows were gentle and easy, but still stung a bit as she clenched and unclenched her ass to help relieve the pain.

  She heard laughter and mocking from the other brothers as they all told Br. Michael he needed a bit more practice before he administered any punishment to the students! Only three more left, she thought, sighing heavily. Hopefully they will all be as gentle as meek Br. Michael.

  'Br. Terrence and his well-worn tawse,' announced Br. Anthony as the middle-aged European History professor took his mark. Br. Terrence placed his hand across her tender ass and patted it lightly. His hand felt warm and soothing as he squeezed both cheeks slowly, one at a time.

  'You'll feel this one, Miss Williams,' Br. Terrence grunted as the wide tawse cracked across her bottom in a deafening sound.

  'Aaah!' she screamed, not expecting such force. Burning tears rolled down her pretty face. Unrelenting pain coursed through both cheeks at once. She could feel the other professors' silent stares boring into her, watching her ass redden and her body quiver and spasm.

  'Shall I give you one more?' Br. Terrence asked firmly, bending close to hear her sniveling cries.

  'Oh, please no,' she begged, 'I don't think I can take another one like that.'

  'You insolent bitch,' he said, 'you think you're so popular? You ask me for another stroke or I'll give it to you twice as hard.'

  With effort she cried, 'Oh, Br. Terrence! I... I... please, give me another stroke.' She screamed as the second blow blazed across her burning ass. She thought she would pass out, as her knees wobbled and she buried her face into the little pillow under her chin. If it weren't for the silk ties holding her in place, she knew she would collapse onto the floor.

  She couldn't believe they were only half finished! How could she take any more? Who was next? She tried to control her sobs and stiffened her body in preparation for her next tormentor. It was Br. James, an effeminate, effete homosexual from some small village in Northern England. He approached her and she could sense that he was staring at the ripening red welts across her cheeks.

  'Hand me that paddle,' he said. 'The one with all those little holes. The boys find this one particularly painful. This should be a nice little lesson for you, my dear.'

  She didn't think she could bear any more as Br. James bounced the paddle against her bright red bottom. She held her breath as she heard a loud whistle and whack. The paddle slammed against her ass and she violently jerked her entire body upward, trying to yank her legs out of their restraints.

  'Ohhh,' she loudly moaned, 'ooohhh, no,' as the pain shot across her sensitive left cheek. Hot tears rushed from her tightly shut eyes once more. She braced herself as the whistle came again, even harder and more forceful than the first stroke.

  Muffling her cries into the damp velvet, she yearned to touch her deep red welts and rub them for relief. She wished Br. Anthony would touch her, comfort her, make her punishers end this torture. But she knew he had arranged this for her benefit, to allow her to keep her position at St. Matthew's. Now only one more brother was left, and when he was finished, Br. Anthony would give her two very gentle and quick strokes and then it would all be over. How could she face this group tomorrow morning?

  She knew the last professor in line was Br. Nathan, newly arrived from the Congo. He towered over six feet tall, with dark black skin and a booming deep voice which intimidated even the toughest of young men in his senior African History class. She sensed his large body approach her, then felt his large hand cover almost her ent
ire bottom, crimson and raised with wide patches. As he moved his hand across her ass, the end of his fingers lightly glided over the edge of her pussy and she let out a quiet, raspy moan.

  Br. Nathan stopped and looked at her. 'In my country,' his voice resonated deeply, 'we can provide a different kind of punishment to women who do not know their place.' He slid his finger against her swollen pussy, massaging her in soft little circles. He teased her clit, making her moan quietly while the other brothers stepped a little closer. 'Ah, so I see you like this,' he laughed, thrusting his long fingers against her clit. 'Tell me how much you enjoy this!'

  'Oh,' she panted, slightly trying to spread apart her legs. She was aroused but sore at the same time, wanting him to enter her, to finger her into a deep long orgasm. 'Oh, yes, yes,' she softly whispered, her back arcing gently as little spasms jerked through her body.

  'Do you like this?' he asked again.

  'Oh, yes, don't stop,' she whispered. She was on the very edge when he suddenly pulled away, leaving her wanting more.

  'Thank you, Br. Nathan, professors,' said Br. Anthony. 'I shall administer Miss Williams' final two strokes in private, provided she can demonstrate to me that she only deserves two more. Thank you for your time.'

  As the heavy oak door swung to a close, she could hear the muffled, delighted laughter from her traitorous colleagues from the other side.

  Thank God, she thought, it's finally over.

  As the door eased shut with a dull thud, Br. Anthony rushed to her side, grabbing her by the hair. 'So, you enjoyed that little display from Br. Nathan, did you?' he cried, pulling her head back sharply with one hand and unbuckling his belt with the other.

  'No, no!' she cried, surprised by his ferocity. 'No, I only want you!'

  'It didn't look like it from that little display,' he said, pushing her face hard against the pillow. He yanked off his thick leather belt with a snap and folded it in half. He whipped it down across her sore ass again and again in heated fury. Crack after crack cut through her already painful welts. Then finally it was over. He threw the belt across the room and released the tight hold he had on her.

  Her entire body heaved as she cried into the pillow. She yanked wildly at her soft straps, trying to free herself. As the burning began to ease, her sobs grew softer. She wondered how he could stand there staring at her. As she turned her head to the side to look at him, she heard an odd sound. He was standing near her, rapidly stroking his throbbing cock.

  He reached over and fingered her wet pussy once more and she moaned despite her anger at him. He leaned over and spread her pussy open wide and shoved his cock into her. Pleasure flooded over her and she knew she would come any moment. He thrust into her deeply and fiercely, grunting loudly until her moans rose to gasping little screams. He pushed deep inside her, holding her body firmly and letting out a low cry. She tightened her body in one long, deep orgasm like she had never experienced before, then spasmed and quivered underneath him. He kissed her back and gently slid out.

  She couldn't speak until after she was completely untied, rubbing her ass and wrists tenderly. She quietly dressed and gathered up the pearl buttons on the carpet. Br. Anthony was sitting at his desk, scanning over the thick file once more.

  'Miss Williams,' he said, pushing a legal paper across the desk toward her, 'this is your new contract.'

  She smiled as she saw just how much her new salary was. She knew she would be returning to St. Matthew's for at least one more year.

  The Mercy of Strange Men

  Aimee Nichols

  LYDIA is ready. Lydia has been ready for some time. She has lost track of how long it has been since the Master prepared her in the usual way - naked and face down, her knees bent under her, upper body stretched forward so as not to put too much weight on her thighs. Arms out in front of her and tied to the edge of the platform with long leather cords. Legs shackled in the same manner at the ankles. This is the way they have always done things; the stretching pressure in her muscles has become as common a feeling as standing up or walking around. She has learned how to relax, how to breathe and move her weight about in order to delay becoming stiff and sore from so long spent in one position. Even so, she seems to have been here longer than usual. She is not sure how much longer her body will hold out without the promise of relief.

  Surely the show should be ready to start soon?

  Time moves excruciatingly slowly without the benefit of sound or images for distraction. Lydia tries to clear her mind and be calm, as the Master always tells her to do, but it's not as easy as she would like it to be. In isolation such as this, displayed to no one in an empty room, her vulnerability is almost unbearable, but enticing at the same time. She imagines how she would appear to an onlooker who might happen upon the locked room by some twist of fate, unaware of what was inside or why, shocked at their discovery, but a shock mingled with arousal, perhaps. The blue and red hues of the overhead lights cast purple shadows over her body, highlighting curves and crevices. The position the Master has posed her in pushes her ass out provocatively and gives her spine the exaggerated curve of sexual mythology without her having to deliberately arch it. Her long rich red hair tumbles over her shoulders, obscuring her face from view. Her breasts are heavy and round, and their weight extends from her chest, creating a buxom and enticing silhouette. Her pale pink nipples are fully erect.

  Already her body has started to respond to the promise of what the night will bring, the consequences of being displayed in such a manner. She smiles, secret and sly. The Master will be pleased when he comes back and finds her wet with no external provocation. She awaits his return, as her cunt grows wetter and her skin ever more sensitive to the air and atmosphere of the room. This is where she belongs.

  After an eternity of waiting, when her body has calmed from its initial arousal response but her mind still flares, her lust-heightened senses detect the door opening and the outside breeze wafting in to assault her bare skin, which prickles into gooseflesh in response. She hears the quiet shuffling and low murmurs of the audience taking their seats, and imagines what they look like, and what their reactions are as they look at her, exposed and subservient and untouchable on stage, like an exotic creature in a glass case.

  They will have come here to see her having heard of her through the whispered grapevine of gloat and conquest. The thrill of that fact never fades. The familiar buzz of it starts in Lydia's mind and moves through her body, coaxing her nipples and clitoris to erection again. Unconsciously she arches her back, pushing her ass higher in the air and her hairless sex towards the crowd. She can feel their presence, their numbers growing. She can feel their attention and readiness; the air is sharp with their sexual tension. She wonders how many feign disinterest, and how many are unable to tear their gaze away, staring without shame, confident they are at last in an environment where they will not be judged and found guilty for looking.

  The Master assured her one night, stroking her hair after a show in one of his candid moments (brought about by a job well done), that the men were fascinated by her. She had a large repeat audience. Those who did not return were normally forced by circumstances to stay away; the Master had shown her a letter on a different occasion, from a regretful former patron who had accepted a job interstate, but who wanted to tell them how important a part of his life Lydia and the Master had been, and that they remained in his fantasies. She had been flattered that someone like her, who did not attract second glances on the street as she quietly went about her everyday life, should have such an effect on a person, on many people, outside of those everyday situations and bonds. It was flattering, she reflected, to become a part of someone's sexual mythology, to have their thoughts turn uncontrollably to you and the brief moment you were a part of their life. To not even have to know them well or acknowledge their existence for this to occur. To know that even after one night in someone's presence, you were a part of their life forever.

  Lydia had agreed on this arrangemen
t, so long ago now, because the Master had promised to bring her out of her sexual shell. He promised that their experiences together would provide the sexual release that she needed so badly. She had been sceptical at first, even as her cunt responded to the scenarios and ideas he described. How was this supposed to liberate her? How was being naked in a room full of strangers watching her become a sexual object going to do anything to realise her own fantasies?

  In the end, she could not deny how much the idea spoke to her and excited her, and how in thrall to the Master she already felt, and how that thrilled her. Refusal was an available choice but never a realistic option. From the first night, her willingness to obey and experiment had rewarded her. After that, she could not pretend there had ever been any other reason for agreeing than her own sexual satisfaction. The thrill was too great, the arousal too real.

  The room continues to fill up, the murmuring of the voices growing deeper and louder. The presence and arousal of the men is almost a physical force now, and it seems there are a lot of them. Lydia strains to detect the Master's presence on the stage, to hear the deep timbre of his voice even if his words are imperceptible.

  She cannot, and despite her arousal she tenses. Surely he wouldn't leave her alone at the mercy of strange men? He would not go that far, she thinks, a faint chill of doubt crystallising in the back of her mind. He would not overstep her boundaries completely, despite his talent for pushing them further and further from what they used to be, despite the fact that they are unrecognisable compared to the boundaries she thought were unmovable before she started coming to him. But would he completely disregard her limits?