As always, I knocked firmly and loudly upon the door when I reached it, waiting for the familiar sound of his voice, but it never came. Had he heard me? Was he in there? Just as I was raising my hand to knock again, his deep voice boomed out.
‘Enter.’
Whenever I heard him speak like that, it instantly took me back to being the frightened meek little schoolgirl I never got the chance to be. My breath catching in my throat, I nervously pushed open the door and stepped inside, closing it behind me with a soft click. He was seated at his desk; an oppressive leather-topped one we had managed to save from an antiques auction, undoubtedly destined to have somebody’s laptop perched upon it if we hadn’t taken it away to restore it to its rightful purposes. He was writing something, completely ignoring me.
‘In the corner, girl. Hands on your head.’
My hands clammy, I gently put my satchel down on the lone pupil’s desk in the middle of the room and stood myself obediently in the corner, my eyes fixed on the intricately textured maroon of the wallpaper. I thought it was just going to be for a few minutes, but he left me there for what felt like eternity. I was starting to feel my arms go numb from being raised for so long, my fingers interlocked atop my neatly combed brown hair, and was just starting to shift my weight to my other foot, just a little, when he suddenly barked at me.
‘Stand still, girl! Can’t you follow a simple command? Come here!’
I felt the blood rush back to my arms as I dropped them to my sides and hurried over to his desk, where he was looking up at me with an expression of firm authority.
‘Did I not summon you to be in my office at 5pm sharp, Smithson?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I managed to stammer, frantically calculating in my mind how long the traffic could possibly have held me up for.
‘Are you aware of what the time is now?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Why not? Did you not think to make yourself aware of the hour before you dilly-dallied on your way to my office?’
‘Well, no, sir, you see it was slightly out of my control in that –’
‘Quiet! I don’t want excuses from you, girl. The entire reason for you even being here in the first place is the abysmal state of the lines you last wrote for me, so I don’t think you should be making things any worse for yourself than they already are. Do you?’
‘No, sir,’ I whispered, remembering ruefully the sight of him tearing up the 500 lines I had slaved over for him on account of their “downright sloppiness”. I had spent several hours this week re-doing them, and desperately hoped they would be acceptable this time.
‘Bring them to me,’ he ordered, watching me as I scurried back to my satchel and removed my exercise book. Dutifully I handed it over to him, biting my lip as his eyes roamed over the pages upon pages of my neat, perfectly even script. How could he possibly find anything wrong with them this time?
‘Hmm. Very good, Smithson. But do you recall why these lines were set?’
‘Yes, sir, for using bad language last week, sir.’
I always felt that impositions for real-life misdemeanours were so much more effective than for imaginary ones. He always told me swearing was unladylike, and not becoming of a good girl like myself, though I just couldn’t help it last week, and it had just slipped out of my mouth. I had certainly not sworn since then though, and even though it was hardly a schoolgirl mistake, it was most definitely one that needed accounting for.
‘That’s correct. I believe you will also recall I informed you that you would be punished for that this evening, Smithson. And I warned you not to be late. And yet you were late.’
I started to get a very dull, aching nervousness building in the pit of my stomach.
‘Yes, I do remember that, sir. But you see it really wasn’t my fault that –’
‘Silence!’ he interrupted, his voice shocking me. ‘If I wanted to hear your feeble excuses, I would ask for them. As for your punishment, I had intended for it to be six strokes of the cane. But for your insolence, you will now have a dozen.’
I knew better than to protest, but inside my whole being was screaming a dozen! He had doubled it. It wasn’t even my fault. I’m sure he could see the look of utter, silenced outrage on my face, as he just smirked at me, smug in the knowledge of how simple it was for him to increase the punishment he would give me, just like that.
‘Bend over.’
My mouth dry with nervousness, I slowly reached down until my hands were tightly gripping my ankles and felt the cotton of my panties stretched taut across my bottom cheeks beneath my skirt. I winced at the thought of the harsh flexible length of cane biting into my tender flesh. It never seemed to matter, how many times I had done this – how many repetitions of the endless game of us becoming these two other people, these two people insides ourselves – it still always frightened me when I thought about what was coming.
I stood there, presented to him, impossibly uncomfortable, while I heard his chair scrape back and his footsteps echoing across the floorboards. Five steps, that was all it took. Five steps from his desk, diagonally across the room, always perfectly evenly spaced, to the cupboard where he kept his canes. He would always take out each one, run his fingers along it, enjoying the sight of my body trembling as he swished it through the air, listening to the satisfying sound of it, longing for the cutting crack as it landed on my skin. I loved the ritualistic way he would do this; the way he would take each one out, line them up flat on his desk, survey them while he decided which one was most suitable to punish me with, yet I could never see which one it was. Sometimes, if he felt particularly nasty, he would tell me, tell me it was his thickest, hardest cane about to bring out bruises on my bottom; or if it was his thinnest, most flexible one, to slash across my thighs until they were covered with crisscrossing, burning lines. But he would always line them up first.
‘Count them. And thank me.’
I swallowed hard, my fingers digging into the soft white cotton of my socks, wishing he had just told me to lean over his desk, so I could have something to hold onto, to support myself. Clearly, he was in no mood to do me any favours. Delicately, he tapped the cane against the scratchy wool of my skirt, lining it up before bringing his arm back and smacking it down with a brutal force. I felt like the breath was knocked out of me, my knees buckling, all of my concentration set on not crying out. The first one is always the one that gets me.
‘One. Thank you, sir.’
‘You moved, Smithson. You know the rules – if you move, you must take the stroke again, and I want to see those legs perfectly straight, do you hear me?’
Biting my lip, I fought back any semblance of an argument.
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
He brought the cane down again, even harder it felt, and it took all of my strength of will to stay in position, but I did it.
‘One. Thank you, sir,’ I managed to choke out. The next two felt just as hard, the fabric of my skirt offering little protection again the bite of the wood. But what little protection it did provide, I would soon appreciate its loss. I felt his hands pulling my skirt up, and tucking it over my back, before stroking my neat white cotton panties underneath. Without any warning taps, he whipped it back down against the tender flesh between my buttocks and the tops of my thighs. Lines of fire tore across my skin. I bit down hard on my lip to stifle the cry of pain.
‘F-four. Thank you, sir.’
How could it only be four, and already hurt so much? The next two he landed in harsh, perfectly symmetrical lines across my cheeks, working his way upwards from that painful spot I hated so much.
I heard the clatter of his cane as he placed it back down on his desk.
‘Good girl,’ he murmured, his hands cool against my hot skin, gently stroking the neat lines he had left. Hooking his thumbs into the elastic of my panties, he slowly pulled them down to my mid-thighs, his fingers straying just briefly between my legs to feel the wetness already there. I had long ago stopped worry
ing about why punishment excited me so much, and decided just to accept it. It was moments like this that made me so glad.
‘You certainly seem to be enjoying yourself, Smithson. Perhaps you would like a few more strokes. After your next half-dozen?’
‘Oh please, sir, no, I’m really not! A dozen is really quite lot for me. Please don’t give me any more.’
I felt his body coming up behind me, his erection straining through his suit trousers and pressing into my sore flesh.
‘Perhaps I’ll just have to think of something else to do with you instead, in that case,’ he said slyly, before stepping back and picking up his cane again. I felt a shiver of excitement run through me as I thought about his cock pushing into me as he slapped his strong hands against the raised red marks he had left on my bottom, the thought of the pain and pleasure together making me even wetter. It was certainly worth enduring six more strokes for.
He knew this, of course, so decided to make the final six worth counting. Besides paying particular attention to the painful crease between my thighs and buttocks, he made sure the final three landed in quick succession in exactly the same spot, one on top of the other, making my head spin with the focus of staying still, every fibre of my being concentrated on taking my punishment as obediently as possible. I could feel tears pricking at my eyelids, building in my throat, just waiting to spill out, and I wanted to release them so much.
Without any warning, he then landed the cane firmly across the middle of my thighs, right above my panties, with such force it nearly knocked me forward, taking me by such an excruciating surprise as I had already counted my final stroke.
‘Thirteen. Thank you. sir,’ I said, gasping and feeling the first tear escaping from my eyes to roll down my cheek. My legs now burned as much as my bottom.
‘Baker’s dozen,’ he said, and chuckled casually by way of an explanation, before strolling back to his seat, from where he could admire his handiwork. ‘Stand up, and hold your skirt up for me,’ he ordered, while one of his hands gently stroked the bulge in his trousers.
I could feel his gaze on me; the knowledge of him being turned on by punishing me only made me want him more. Tears streamed down my face. Crying after punishment always made me feel so relaxed, so at peace with myself.
‘What a good girl you’ve been for me,’ he said softly. He walked across to where I stood with my hands numb from gripping my ankles so tightly, my skirt bunched up in my hand, and my reddened bottom stinging fiercely. I looked up and into his eyes, my own still filled with tears. He smiled at me. ‘A very good girl,’ he repeated, brushing my tears away and gently kissing my forehead. ‘So why don’t you bend over my desk, Smithson, and show me how good you are?’
Feeling the familiar sparks of excitement darting though me, I positioned my body over the smooth, worn leather top of his desk; my bottom enticingly pushed upwards, showing him the beautiful red lines he had created, and the slippery wetness of my opening longing for his touch.
‘Please, sir,’ I whispered, fidgeting slightly against his desk, and wriggling my bottom in the way I knew would tempt him. ‘Please?’
I heard the soft hiss of his zip being undone, the jangle of his belt buckle, his trousers falling to the floor. I could already picture his cock, firm and hard and thick, gripped tightly in his hand as he watched his eager little schoolgirl wife pleading for him. ‘I want to be good for you, sir. Please let me be good for you?’
I knew he would be smiling now; walking towards me, his cock aching to push into me. I knew how much he wanted me like this.
‘You have taken your punishment very well, Smithson. I’m pleased with you. You’re always a good girl for me.’ And with that, he was inside me, filling me with the thickness of his cock, making me gasp with the suddenness of it, the fullness of it, making me rock back onto him to feel him deeper inside me. Firmly, repeatedly, he smacked my sore bottom harder and harder, enjoying the sight of the redness spreading further across my skin, my gasps growing ever more intense as the sensation increased. Desperately, he pulled himself out of me, twisted my body round until I was on my back, my legs spread outwards, leaning myself back on my elbows to watch him as he pushed back into me. I scrambled to undo my school blouse and reveal the rosy peaks of my nipples to him.
Steadily he thrust inside me. His thumb and forefinger pulled hard on my nipples, making me moan as he twisted and tugged on them. My own fingers reached down to my clit as the dull ache of need built inside me. Feeling myself edging nearer and nearer to my peak, I pushed my knuckles hard against my clit, and began rubbing furiously in time to his pounding. I watched him as he fucked me. He wore his tweed suit; smart yet still that little bit mismatched, like any strict headmaster worth his salt should be, and smiling down at his well-disciplined schoolgirl as she brought herself off for him.
Panting, gasping, I felt myself climbing higher and higher until finally my entire body convulsed with waves of pleasure. His cock still pounded into me, the friction driving me insane until at last he exploded too.
He collapsed on top of me, our bodies clinging together on top of his desk, satiated at last. The sting of my caning began to return as the glow of orgasm faded.
Smiling, he kissed me. And disentangled himself from my limbs. He readjusted my school tie over my open blouse, making me giggle. I watched him dress himself again, admiring his broad shoulders and strong hands as he re-buckled his belt. I rubbed the raised lines on my bottom as I tugged my panties back up and over them. I then helped him to hang the canes back up in their rightful place, rearranged the desk and packed away my exercise book. Then I stood patiently, and waited to be dismissed. He sent me away to go and mark II B’s stack of homework, while he disappeared downstairs to make dinner. Whoever said schooldays were the happiest of your life certainly had the right idea.
Pat-a-Cake
by Sandrine Lopez
Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man …
Other girls thought I was immature, sticking with playground hand games until well into sixth form.
Bake me a cake as fast as you can …
The truth was I had matured far faster than any of them. They just didn’t know how.
Pat it and prick it and mark it with B …
The hands are one of the most sensitive parts of the human body, with the exception of the erogenous zones. Pre-puberty, my hands were at the top end of that scale. As a baby, then young girl, I found sucking my thumb to be a real joy. Discovered all my fingers were equally wired, as were my palms.
Put it in the oven for baby and me!
Going through adolescence, they stayed at that peak. Not even my budding nipples, or my clit, or g-spot – once I got a handle on sex education and started reading girls’ magazines – could hold a candle to my fingers and palms. If I played with myself, I got more from the touching, than being touched.
Of course there were the socially embarrassing consequences. When still young, playing Cat’s Cradle with Granny was an exercise in bondage before I even knew what that meant. A simple handshake, especially a strong firm one from a guy, was like having him goose me. Washing my hands with liquid soap was a slippery, sensual, erotic island all of its own. Clapping at a gig or show was akin to having a quick frig. Well okay, perhaps that last one could go either way, especially for a singer or band you really, really liked.
When I started kissing boys, I’d always hold at least one of their hands, gripping it tightly until it almost hurt them. They had no idea my entwined fingers and our clasped palms, were giving me far more pleasure. Until one, Scott, took me by the wrist, ran his hot tongue up my palm and slid it between my fingers: up one side, down the other, up, down, sucking on them, until I almost passed out with ecstatic bliss. It gave a whole new meaning to finger fucking.
Scott stayed my boyfriend for a lot longer than most. I’d developed a playful slap across his face when being cheeky or boyish. That really turned me on. He kind of liked it too but one afternoon, it went too
far. Lazing in the back garden with him and Mum, my summer-heated horny arousal turned heavy-handed, literally. When he made one of his jibes, I swung out too much, too fast, and unwittingly cracked him round the jaw. To me, it was rapturous, an orgasmic collision of my palm and fingers fully on his face. But …
Mum’s head jerked up from her magazine at the gunshot-like sound, and looked at the sore red print of my hand across Scott’s cheek. ‘That hurt, didn’t it?’
Tears actually welled up in poor Scott’s shocked eyes. I covered my mouth with my hand, which still smarted sublimely, and my breath under it caused even more sensual stimulation. He nodded, and it was the beginning of the end for us. Even though I apologised again and again, he suspected – quite rightly – that I got something scarily pleasurable out of it.
Then I went to college and met Dylan. By this age, none of the other girls wanted to play hand games, having graduated to ‘issues’ and ‘causes’. None shared the exquisite pleasure that palm-on-palm slapping gave me; almost climaxing on the rapidly racing rhythm of ‘Pat-A-Cake’, or ‘Pretty Little Dutch Girl’. Oh, go on, just one more, I would have pleaded to school friends, until their arms were tired, while mine buzzed and tingled deliriously as only I could know.
Dylan was a bit left-of-centre, gothish, oddball, radical. K-i-n-k-y, the other girl students would mouth, mime and point behind his back. If they knew my way of pleasure, they may have said the same about me. I wasn’t sure exactly how k-i-n-k-y he was until out of the blue, possibly having been rejected by all the others, he asked me down the pub for a drink. Nothing ventured, the saying goes …
After the usual alcohol-fuelled foreplay, I found he was a reasonable kisser. But he held hands like he meant it, as we virtually arm-wrestled under the pub table. God, this guy was good. My wrist ached but his grip was a vice. My palm pressed like never before, my fingers felt every sensation fiercely and fully with a cap ‘F’. I don’t know what signals he got from that, but it wasn’t long before we fell into his bed.
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