by Lindsay Ross
‘Perhaps a lesser punishment in the circumstances…’ Mason suggested.
‘Please, Miss,’ pleaded Lily, dropping to her knees and clutching Emma’s legs.
‘Get up and face your punishment,’ said Emma, pulling the girl to her feet. ‘Now touch your toes.’
Her ass stuck out and her cheeks were fleshier than the boy’s, so when Emma delivered her first stroke her buttocks quivered.
Emma anticipated a theatrical performance from Lily and stood back to watch. The girl clutched her cheeks and hopped about, uttering sounds that suggested she’d been branded with a red hot poker.
Mason said, ‘Miss Holman…’ but any protest was cut short. It wasn’t the done thing to challenge a colleague in front of students but Emma could see he wanted to.
When Lily had calmed down, a second stroke thwacked across the chubbiest part of her bottom and sparked the same dramatic reactions as before. ‘Aghhhhhh!’ she howled, rubbing her cheeks; and then the begging and pleading which set Emma’s teeth on edge. Why couldn’t the girl simply take her punishment and get it over with.
Her irritation with the girl made Emma strike her with even greater force and there was a sharp intake of breath from the spectators. Mason half stepped forward as if determined to intervene but restrained himself, apparently with great difficulty.
Three bright red stripes were emblazoned across the girl’s bottom, broken only by the deep cleft between her cheeks, all neatly spaced as testimony to the accuracy of the flogger.
With high back lift and long follow through, Emma doubled the number of strokes and left Lily howling. Mason stepped forward to take her arm and lead her back to his armchair. Soon he was stroking the girls’ bottom under the pretence of soothing her wounds and offering tender loving care.
‘Stand up and turn round, Maycock,’ Emma barked and the boy tried to obey but his limbs were obviously aching and suffering a degree of cramp. He fell over as he tried to straighten up.
‘Come here,’ she ordered.
It was clearly difficult for Maycock to achieve any mobility but eventually he was standing to attention on the designated piece of carpet.
‘What’s this?’ Emma demanded.
His cock had lost some of its stiffness and now stuck straight out.
‘I’m sorry, Miss.’
‘I asked what it was.’
‘An erection, Miss. I’m sorry, Miss.’
‘Didn’t I tell you to get rid of it?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘So you continue to defy me?’
‘No, Miss. I don’t mean to.’
‘The evidence is only too clear for all of us to see. Why can’t you exercise self-control?’
‘I’m sorry, Miss. It just won’t go down.’
‘Won’t go down! What kind of excuse is that? Mind over matter, boy. Stop thinking about sex. What is it about men? I can’t have punished you severely enough.’
Emma picked up her cane and ordered Maycock to stand still facing her with his hands behind his back. She made no concession in the severity of the two strokes she delivered across his cock, one near the base, the other nearer the tip. It was his turn to jump about and clutch himself but in Emma’s opinion he was more justified considering the part of his anatomy she had struck. It was now possible to see three distinct purple ridges across the shaft of his cock.
‘Perhaps Lily could put him out of his misery,’ suggested Wilkins. ‘A hand job or blow job would settle the issue.’
‘Wouldn’t that be rewarding the boy?’ This was Mason from the depths of his armchair where he was still fondling the sobbing girl.
‘You only think about the girls,’ said Jennie, the matron. ‘Boys have feelings too. Look at the state of his penis. No, I’m not criticising you, Miss Holman. It’s just the blatant favouritism these men show for the girls.’
Jennie came to Maycock and ran her hand along the length of his cock.
‘It might be fairer to give him some relief,’ she said.
‘Why don’t you see to him, Jennie?’ asked Wilkins.
‘If someone would pass me the box of tissues.’ She gripped the boy’s prick firmly and began to masturbate him vigorously. In seconds he was fully erect again and soon after he shot his load all over matron’s hand and onto the carpet.
‘That’s it,’ said Jennie, keeping her hand there to squeeze the last drops and applying tissues at the same time. ‘All of it, Maycock. Good.’
When Maycock was dismissed, trailing his pyjama bottoms in his hand, they could see how severely his buttocks were marked, as was the case with Lily who followed him out, still emitting little subdued sobs.
‘Ask Stephanie to send two girls this time. I can speed things up if I take them in pairs.’
When Emma had dealt with all the miscreants, proving her ability to cane two girls bending over side by side, she received a round of applause from her colleagues and did a little mock curtsey in acknowledgement.
‘Bravo!’ shouted Wilkins. ‘Magnifico!’
Chapter Three
Chrissie stayed behind after the lesson and fluttered her eyelashes at Andy Scates.
‘I’m struggling with the Merchant of Venice essay Discuss Portia as an example of Shakespeare’s heroines,’ she told him. ‘Should I bring Lady Macbeth into it? Is she one of his heroines?’
Such is the perversity of human nature that Chrissie had decided to give him another chance on the basis that he’d ignored her since the day she’d walked out of his flat. He’d turned his attentions to Tracy, a sort of semi-Goth who invariably dressed in black but kept changing the colour of her hair, usually favouring magentas and pinks so that she looked like a stork in black jeans.
‘I’m a bit busy, Chrissie,’ he told her.
‘You said I could come round, remember?’
‘Do you really want to? Last time…’
‘I’m sorry about last time. PMS.’
‘You seemed a bit uncomfortable. I don’t want to force you into anything.’
‘I told you, time of the month. I’m really sorry, Andy. You’d put time aside for me and I must have seemed ungrateful.’
‘If you’re sure…’
‘You said to be up front when I needed help. Could I come round tonight?’
‘Tonight would be difficult. I could give you an hour on Wednesday evening.’
‘Thanks, Andy. I really appreciate it.’
Obviously the bastard’s going to play hard to get, thought Chrissie. As she’d watched him flirting with the Stork she’d realised what a catch he was. He was very good-looking and very intelligent. She’d had plenty of boyfriends who were the former (at least in her eyes) but not many who fitted the latter description. Well, none, to be honest. She was used to the types with shaved heads and tattoos, not that she had anything against tattoos since she had a design in the small of her back and a little bird on her left shoulder. She wouldn’t expect Andy to have any tattoos or a ring through a nipple or anything so vulgar – she imagined he would consider body art something for the working classes. He’d be wrong, of course, but that was likely to be his perception. She often wondered what he thought of her nose stud.
Chrissie had decided to try to endure the cane if it was important to him. Looking at the Internet, she’d decided his liking for smacking bottoms wasn’t that uncommon and there seemed to be plenty of ladies around who liked to be spanked. There were supposed to be some very famous people who indulged, either as giver or receiver or, in some cases both, but she hadn’t really heard of any of those mentioned.
If it turned out that spanking or caning was all that Andy was interested in she’d have to re-think; she’d want to be fucked as well as do the kinky stuff.
When Wednesday came round, Chrissie found herself anticipating their meeting quite keenly as she showered and dressed. The heat wave continued and she opted for a light summer dress over the Ann Summers bra but left off her knickers. It was something she did from time to time, not only
because blokes liked it but because it felt good on a hot day, having the coolness and freedom to move around without getting so sticky around the crotch area. Vulgar again, no doubt.
She made a few notes as he chattered about Shakespeare which wasn’t easy because he galloped along at great speed. He sat on the leather sofa with his legs stretched out and his hands behind his head. He was wearing shorts because of the heat and she thought he had well shaped legs, quite hairy as she would have expected.
She put her left hand on his bare thigh. ‘Whoa,’ she said. ‘I can’t keep up.’ She left her hand there and stroked the fine hairs a little.
Chrissie looked at the front of his shorts and saw the outline of a fairly flaccid prick bent to the left and set herself the task of making him erect.
She began to pull the little hairs on his broad thigh, continuing her notes with her right hand. Stroked the underside of his thigh very slowly. Let her hand slide higher, nearer to his crotch. Let it rub the flesh there nearly under the line of his shorts.
She saw the first stirrings of his prick under the light cotton of his shorts.
He took hold of her hand and placed it over the bulge, then took his hands away. He felt big to her under the cloth as his cock straightened.
She put her notebook and pen down on the sofa and, leaning over him, she slid his shorts down just below his balls and his prick snapped up as it was released. It was still climbing, not quite at full attention.
Chrissie knelt between his legs and pulled his shorts right down to his ankles. He lifted his feet off the rug so that she could remove his shorts and toss them away, then pulled up his T-shirt in the other direction to bare the whole of his belly and loins.
As she had imagined, he was hairy, not only was there thickness of pubic hair but his belly was more or less covered, as were his inner thighs.
She took his swollen balls in both hands and squeezed none too gently.
He pulled the T-shirt up over his head so he was naked because he’d already kicked off the sandals he’d been wearing.
Andy twirled his pointing finger in a gesture that told her to remove her dress. She unhooked her bra at the back and threw it on the floor on top of the dress and let him see she wasn’t wearing panties. He stretched out a foot and teased her pussy with his big toe.
‘Your cunt’s dripping already,’ he said.
‘That’s the result of not wearing knickers.’
She shuffled closer on her knees and lowered her lips over the end of his cock, then took more and more of his shaft into her mouth while he continued to probe her pussy lips with his foot. He had to stop doing it to let her press up even closer to him, occupying the V between his open thighs.
Chrissie let her saliva run down his shaft before she began to suck. He wound his fingers in her hair and pulled quite roughly, as if he needed to hold her there although there was no necessity. She would suck him until he came if that was what he wanted, although it would leave her wanting to be fingered or fucked. Perhaps he would be good with his fingers or he might give her tongue, though she didn’t think Andy was the type to enjoy licking a woman’s quim. He tasted and smelled good. She guessed he’d showered a short time before she arrived because there was a smell of soap around his belly, as well as the musky male smell of flesh and sweat, pleasant when fresh, as it was now.
He splayed his legs still further and pressed her down with his fistfuls of hair. She felt he was asserting himself, establishing their relative roles, making it plain he wanted to be in control.
She didn’t want to resist whether this was a prelude to a caning or not.
It seemed right He was older and wiser, her teacher and mentor.
She felt like a pupil and a novice in the kind of sex he favoured. She’d fellated plenty of men, but she felt this was only a beginning with Andy. If they sensed a woman was prepared to swallow, most men would make her go through with it. Chrissie sensed Andy would not.
Sure enough, when Chrissie felt his cock twitch and harden still more, as usually happens before a man’s climax, he pulled her head away by her hair and she wiped up the saliva round her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘Here,’ he said, slapping his thighs and indicating he wanted her in his lap. It wasn’t something open to argument.
She clambered over his knees feeling nervous in anticipation of what he would do to her, tensing her body in anticipation of pain.
But all he did was to run the palms of his hand over the curves of her cheeks before he eased his fingers between her legs and felt for her pussy.
Chrissie relaxed, feeling relieved. She was very wet and her lips opened readily to receive his gently searching fingers. He wasn’t rough with her, didn’t jab into her. Sometimes a man’s fingers were better than his cock if he knew what he was about. Fingers could bend and flex and stretch you and explore you, fingers could caress the clit. Tips of digits could be pincers round the clitoris. Fingers inside could multiply till you wanted to scream to be fist fucked. Then you felt you could take him up to his wrist. Other times, you wanted the precision of one finger, possibly two…
He withdrew his fingers only when she was writhing on his naked knees and pressing down on him to take her pleasure.
As Chrissie expected, he freed his hand so he could slap her bottom, once, twice, three times. He smacked her where she was fleshiest and she felt her cheeks quiver. She hoped he didn’t think her bottom was fat. It was happening at last and she felt her stomach lurch with excitement and fear. Her mind raced ahead. She knew she would be better to take each minute as it came, not look forward to wonder where it was going to end.
Her bottom was smarting rather than hurting desperately and she sensed he was being relatively gentle, that he could have spanked her with much greater force. His hand seemed hefty and wide though it wasn’t something she’d noticed particularly, perhaps it just seemed that way.
Instead of being affronted or resentful, Chrissie wondered whether the contours of her cheeks pleased him, whether hers was a bottom that compared favourably with others he spanked or used his cane on. Instead of thinking he was privileged to be allowed to do this intimate thing to her, she thought more about whether she was worthy of his time and attention. Then she was angry with herself as usual. What kind of creature was she that she doubted her worthiness to have her arse smacked! It was ridiculous.
Yet perhaps it wasn’t so stupid. She wasn’t being smacked by a machine. She was being spanked by Andrew Scates and it mattered what he thought of her. Her thoughts were crowding in and causing her confusion. Concentrate on what he’s doing to you, focus on pleasing him, she told herself.
Her bottom was glowing by now and she imagined he would be looking down on crimson flesh.
She was aware she was sweating and hoped he didn’t find her smell unpleasant. You sweat when you’re afraid. Yes, she was still frightened. Frightened about whether she could bear it if he really hurt her, frightened of being cast aside because she didn’t please him. And, yes, scared of pain itself.
Suddenly he lifted her and stood up.
He carried her to the bedroom.She felt him coax her into a kneeling position on the bed, head right down, bottom raised up high.
She saw the cane was resting on the duvet just as it had been before. He was like an artist easing his model into the pose he wanted.
She sensed rather than saw him take the cane back a long way and crack it across her tightened cheeks.
She heard herself cry out.
***
Chrissie was restless and fidgety in Andy’s lecture, trying not to put too much pressure on her bottom cheeks because they still hurt, two days later. She’d been astonished to see and feel the raised welts across her white flesh. They had turned to a dark purple especially where the lines intersected. She felt a compulsion to keep examining her bottom in the mirror. Andrew did that to me. Andy put them there.
Now she was in the front row and was pleased when their eyes met. There wa
s a thrilling intimacy in their shared glances, both knowing her bottom was severely bruised, giver and recipient, connected like co-conspirators.
She had wept in his arms immediately after her caning, but reflecting later she was pleased with herself. Chrissie imagined her feelings were like those experienced by people who’d undergone initiation into a tribe or secret society or cult, a sense of belonging achieved through suffering rather than paying a membership fee to join.
They hadn’t opened their veins and mingled blood exactly, but there was a bond.
She wore her stripes with pride, deciding it didn’t matter for the time being if she hollered or shed tears or made an exhibition of herself by thrashing about as long as she endured and as long as Andy was content. She would work on her self-control, steel herself to take punishment without all that noise and fuss but it might take time. She wanted to be what he wanted her to be. She imagined perfection in his terms would be an utterly compliant, submissive woman.
On the websites the subs called the men who dominated them master and she resolved to address Andy in that manner. Perhaps he would then see she wasn’t totally naïve, without any knowledge of the world. Then she hesitated. Should she be taking the initiative on anything? Shouldn’t she wait for his instructions in all matters?
She was still afraid of what could happen, still unsure of how she would respond if he got really rough with her, though it was hard to imagine him angry enough to lose control. His caning of her had been slow and deliberate and, looking at the results, she could see the purple lines were neatly spaced. It might seem a ridiculous thought but she appreciated he’d taken care with her.
He gave her many tasks in the next month and she knew they were tests of her resolve and commitment.
Some were routine, like doing his housework and preparing his meals. Others were bizarre.
Not far from Branksholme College was a hostel that provided beds for down and outs, mostly alcoholics. They weren’t allowed into the place until fairly late and they congregated in a yard hugging their bottles until they got the word. Although they were mainly screened off from the public by a high wall, there was one part where it was possible to see through black spiked railings.
