by Sarah Steel
At three-fifteen, Mary invited the others to accompany her into his office. She surprised them by addressing Andrews as William.
'William. Willie,' she laughed. 'How appropriate that the vicar named a little prick like you Willie.'
Andrews paled with anger. The girls giggled, enjoying the joke.
'Well, Willie,' Mary continued softly, 'all work and no play is no good. No good at all. So I want to see you come out from behind that desk and play, Willie. With yourself.'
Remaining behind the desk, he appealed to her, but Mary was adamant. She ordered him to come and stand before them.
'No need to get it out, Willie. We don't particularly want to see the wretched thing,' she added, piling on the humiliation. 'Just knuckle yourself through your trousers. Commence.'
Andrews crimsoned under their expectant gaze. Clenching his right hand into a fist, he dragged it down against himself half-heartedly.
'Faster, Willie. Come, come, we know you can do better than that,' she snarled. 'Faster - unless, of course, you really want to suffer.'
At the promise of pain, his fist rasped the front of his trousers, conjuring up a prominent bulge. Closing his eyes and planting his feet wider apart, he savaged himself until, moments later, he moaned - staggering back against his desk and shuddering. He came, to their ragged cheer, the dark stain spreading across his lap.
'Good boy, Willie,' Mary crowed, clapping her hands. The others clapped vigorously, their sporadic applause echoing around the office. Mary held her hand up for silence.
'Again, Willie. Do it again,' she instructed.
'I can't—' he pleaded, shaking his head.
'You'd better, Willie. I think you'll find you can.'
The watching circle of women nodded vehemently and brayed for another orgasm.
Twenty-six minutes later, Andrews knelt in a crumpled heap on the carpet. Obeying Mary's stern instructions, he had climaxed four times. His trousers and the knuckles of his right hand were soaking.
Mary hitched her skirt up and, leaving her dark bronze tights in place, straddled his face and forced him down onto the carpet with her heavy buttocks. Kneeling astride him as he lay stretched out beneath her, his face smothered by the weight of her warm bottom, she rocked gently to and fro, burying him completely. His hands taloned the carpet desperately as he struggled to breathe, but Mary ignored the muffled screams of her mount and rode him ruthlessly.
Squeezing her thighs together, she bent forwards to unzip him. His little wet cock proved elusive but she finally managed to tease it out. The spent penis was wet, pink and shrivelled. She toyed with it contemptuously for several minutes, to the delight of the onlookers. Still riding him with her splayed cheeks - her bronze tights rasping his upturned face painfully - she asked for a tissue. Samantha supplied one. Mary dried the tiny penis carefully, then held it dominantly in a finger-and-thumb pincer.
'Little Willie,' she remarked, flicking the tip of his pathetic specimen. 'We are drying you now and putting you back where you belong. And we don't want to see you ever again.'
Stuffing his penis back into his wet underpants and then zipping Andrews up, Mary carefully planted her hands down onto the carpet before angling her rump directly down onto his face. She started bouncing her bottom slowly at first, then with gathering momentum and increasing violence, she commenced the queening of the dethroned office king.
'I think I've done all that there is to be done here,' Samantha announced the following lunchtime. 'Almost.'
Outside, the grey sky darkened ominously as Brighton braced itself for the impending storm. Driven on shore by the violent winds, the seagulls appeared as tiny white flecks against the storm clouds.
The stern mentor from head office slipped into the small kitchen at the rear and emerged grasping the white electric flex from the jug kettle. 'Come with me, please. I'm going to say au revoir to Andrews.'
Samantha rationed them to two strokes apiece. After her departure, things would return to normal at the office - so they enjoyed themselves thoroughly, making every slicing stripe count. The whippy flex kissed his pale buttocks six times, leaving them criss-crossed with livid red lines. Andrews, spread face down across his desk, whimpered.
'From now on, his bottom is yours. Absolutely. But I think he's learnt his lesson. You shouldn't have any more problems with him.'
The three women nodded.
'And don't forget,' Samantha murmured, producing her thin, phallic mobile, 'with this, I can plug into a modem and track his every move.'
Outside, the wind moaned loudly. Up in the boiling clouds, the seagulls mewed and squalled. Inside the office, Samantha approached the whipped cheeks and stroked the tip of her slender mobile down between them. Andrews grunted as she forced the tip into his sphincter and gently probed his anus.
'Andrews said there was no future in computers,' she told the watching women. 'Thanks to this and my modem, I'd say his future is programmed. It's as good as having him electronically tagged.'
'You can control him from your desk in head office,' Mary replied enthusiastically. 'Remote control.'
'Exactly,' Samantha whispered. 'Andrews said that the electronic office would be a nightmare. In his case, he was right.' Samantha drove the slender phallus deep into his anus. He opened his mouth wide, to plead and protest: but all they heard was the scream of the gulls circling above in the storm.
Strict Mistress
Miranda stretched out in her bed, spreading her thighs wide. Naked - it was a warm night - she relished the crisp linen at her skin. The freshly laundered sheets rasped her nakedness deliciously. It had been another busy day. Demanding. Teaching Greek and maths at the Jakob Institute was challenging. The young ladies - opting for the Jakob Institute instead of Oxbridge - were reluctant to learn. In return for astronomical fees, the Institute promised a regime of academic excellence coupled with strict discipline. Daughters of the rich and privileged, their wild behaviour excluded them from attending conventional colleges. Their despairing parents firmly approved of the strict code of discipline imposed by the Institute.
Discipline. Miranda shivered with pleasure as her nipples tightened then thickened up into peaks of pleasurable pain. Discipline. She swept her fingertips down across her belly and gently stroked the fuzz at her dark pubic nest.
A shrill bell rang out twice, the sharp bursts signalling lights out in the four dorms at the rear of the rambling Queen Anne mansion. Miranda knew that the thirty-two young ladies would be scrambling into their spartan beds, no doubt clutching lipsticks, chocolates and other forbidden luxuries. Miranda closed her eyes and strummed her pussy rhythmically, knowing that soon the silent footfalls of the Head would haunt the corridors. Every night, after lights out, the Head would prowl the dark silence of the dorms, swooping instantly on any torch light under tented bedclothes. The girl caught breaking the rules would be dealt with instantly. Miranda's fingers punished her sticky labia as she imagined the lead pulling away the bedclothes and ordering the naked miscreant to turn tummy-down into her bed, then swiping the bare-bottomed girl severely with her supple slipper. It was usually four strokes. Miranda slowly tweaked her clitoris four times, then knuckled her wet heat.
The Head had made it perfectly plain at Miranda's interview, months ago, that all members of staff were expected - indeed encouraged - to promote the strict principles laid down by Dr Jakob, the founder of the Institute.
'Strap or cane?' the Head had asked, raising her voice against the winter rain lashing the windows of her study.
Miranda, clutching her certificates to her breast, had stared back across the polished desk.
'Which do you prefer? For punishment?' the Head had insisted.
Miranda, who had presumed that 'punishments' meant setting an extra Greek translation task for evening prep, mumbled an incoherent reply.
'I prefer the cane,' the Head had continued, momentarily closing her eyes, as if savouring the word as one savours a superb wine. 'The cane.'
T
he interview had been touch and go - but Miranda rallied. The Head seemed to be more interested in Miranda's own experience of discipline at the hands of the strict nuns who had schooled her so rigorously. An awkward silence filled the room; Miranda, reading the stern face of the Head - the iron-grey cropped hair, pale-pink lips and unblinking blue eyes - sensed the right thing to say. She launched into a hymn in praise of Dr Jakob and the benefits of discipline.
'Punishment—' she blurted out.
'Yes?' the Head encouraged, her eyes widening a fraction.
'The thing about punishment I most remember is that it forms a close bond. A very close bond—'
'Between the whipper and the whipped?'
Miranda nodded.
'Tell me more about this bond between the chastiser and the chastised,' the Head continued, sensing at last that Miranda might well be the right candidate to appoint.
'There was a nun,' Miranda confessed, her voice no more than a troubled whisper. 'A very strict nun. When she punished me, she placed her hand down across my bottom, letting it rest there for several minutes before the spanking commenced. She would speak to me in a severe tone, but squeeze my bottom tenderly.'
'Yes?' the Head hissed.
'I can remember her cool palm resting lightly across the swell of my bare bottom. I can remember the delicious promise of pain - and the dreadful threat of pleasure - to come.'
'Exactly.' The Head nodded.
'And of course I would do anything for that nun, afterwards. I adored her. I'm sure I owe my first in Greek to her - efforts.'
Miranda got the job.
Since her appointment, Miranda had not spanked, strapped or caned a single lady at the Jakob Institute. To the amazement of her pupils - and the growing concern of her fellow tutors - Miranda taught the torments of Greek and the miseries of maths with patience and persistence, never once resorting to punishment to promote learning. Her leniency was commented upon openly and her reluctance to chastise became the focus of the Common Room gossip.
When the winter snow was still blanketing the manicured lawns surrounding the Institute, the murmurs of discontent reached the ears of the Head. Miranda was summoned to the study. On the polished desk, the Punishment Book lay open, the entries neatly penned. Miranda watched as the Head dragged her forefinger down along the signature column, tapping it from time to time. As Miranda gazed at the lines of red ink, she felt the silent eloquence with which each entry attested to the punished pupil's suffering - just as the cane stripes across the punished pupil's buttocks betrayed her burning pain. The Head raised her finger up from the page and pointed it directly at Miranda.
'You appear to be the only member of my staff who has not entered a punishment in the records. I think it would be instructive for you to witness more experienced tutors administering discipline. Look, and learn. When I appointed you, I believed that I was engaging the services of someone who would rigorously uphold the standards of discipline laid down by Dr Jakob. I believed you to be a strict mistress. Do not disappoint me.'
The next day, in the late afternoon when the sun had set and the neon lights burned brightly, Miranda sat in the music room. The French music mistress was tutoring four stubborn girls in harmonic technique. Pages of Schumann's Frauenliebe und leben littered the top of the highly polished piano, which reflected the swelling breasts of the four girls standing around it. Miranda watched the reflected bosoms rise and fall as the students struggled to sing a perfect A sharp.
'Non, non, non. Quel horreur,' the French mistress exclaimed.
Chic in a black poloneck and tight pencil skirt, she sat with her pert bottom perched on the edge of the piano stool, one slender hand held aloft, the other at the black and white keys, fingering them expertly. Miranda saw that the music mistress was growing increasingly impatient.
'Lah,' the French mistress trilled, opening her red lips wide and letting her pink tongue-tip quiver on the tremolo. As her clear note died, she stabbed her finger down on the keyboard, making the piano sing.
'Lah,' came the ragged response - missing A sharp completely as the four pupils attempted to harmonise with the clear note.
Miranda held her breath as she watched the angry mistress order each girl to drag up her pleated skirt and hold it up at her hips. Deftly yanking the girls' panties down, the French mistress severely spanked each bare bottom in turn, to a ringing A sharp freshly fingered from the piano.
'Lah.'
Spank.
A squeal, followed by a tearful attempt at A sharp. 'L-lah.'
Within eight minutes, and twenty-four spanks, three of the whimpering, red-bottomed young ladies had achieved the desired pitch. The spanking hand hovered over the crimson-buttocked girl who could only manage to sing a flat note off key. Miranda felt her throat tighten as the French mistress insinuated her free down between the girl's parted thighs, taking a tuft of her exposed pubic fuzz in a cruel finger and thumb pincer.
The piano was struck, producing the A sharp. The fingers tweaked and tugged, bringing the gasping girl up on her toes to produce a poignant vibrato.
Miranda gazed out through the classroom window. Two robins were bullying a blackbird for cake crumbs in the snow. She smiled - a clever starling in speckled splendour had hopped down to join the fracas - but the crisp tone of the Geography mistress drew her attention back to the blackboard.
The Geography mistress was feared and respected by all her students. She had a collection of bamboo canes and used them to illustrate variations in global climate and vegetation patterns. Selecting a short, whippy specimen - some fourteen inches of silvery lemon malice - she held it aloft and instructed a dark-haired girl to identify it.
'Rattan,' the girl replied promptly.
'From?'
'The rain forests of Indonesia, particularly Borneo. It prefers the lowlands, never found above a treeline of 2,000 metres and requires an annual rainfall of 82 inches with an ambient temperature of 42°C.'
'Giving it a supple core and a pliant casing. Excellent. You, girl,' the mistress continued, selecting another length of yellow cane. The thin rod shivered as the mistress flexed it with her supple wrist, swishing it twice and filling the classroom with its eerie thrum.
'Malaccan.'
'Good. The darker wood that grows beneath dense tree canopies in tropical jungles. Growing on lighter soil, it absorbs less water but compensates for this by retaining moisture in its fibres. A surprisingly supple specimen. Observe how it bends.' She gave a brief but memorable demonstration, bending the rod in her strong, slender hands. Several of the girls, Miranda observed, squirmed on their hard wooden stools.
'And this?' the mistress purred, producing a slender wand that glinted under the electric light. 'You, girl.'
The blonde, pony-tailed girl remained silent.
'Well?' demanded the mistress, tapping her open palm with the cane.
'I forget—'
'Then I must help you to remember.' Miranda watched spellbound as the Geography mistress ordered the blonde pupil to stand and then bend over across her desk. The wooden stool squeaked as it was pushed aside. The blonde's breasts kissed the surface of her desk and then squashed down into it as she bent down, surrendering her buttocks up to the approaching mistress. Flipping the hem of the short, uniform skirt up over the bending girl's buttocks with a neat flick of her cane tip, the mistress tapped the navy blue knickers dominantly.
'Down,' she ordered crisply.
Miranda felt her tingling labia part and pout, the sticky hot lips of her arousal puckering up to kiss the cotton of her satin panties.
'Quickly, girl.' The tip of the cane tapped the rounded cheeks impatiently.
With trembling fingers, the bending blonde slowly inched her navy knickers down to her knees, drawing her legs together and binding them tightly as she revealed the perfect peaches of the bared bottom.
Miranda felt the soft plucking at her wet heat, then the warm scald as she juiced freely.
'This,' the Geography mistress
barked, guiding the cane to the blonde's lips, 'is a species of bambusa. Taste it.'
The obedient blonde licked the shining cane gently, and mewed aloud as it was pressed against her lips. Miranda started to come, soaking herself.
'What is it?' the mistress demanded, flourishing her bamboo.
'Bambusa,' chorused the entire class - Miranda was surprised to hear her own voice among them.
'Bambusa,' whispered the blonde girl, clenching her soft cheeks anxiously.
Spelling out the seven letters aloud, the Geography mistress swished the cane down across the upturned buttocks, striping them severely and bequeathing seven thin red lines across their luscious swell. Miranda saw the pony-tail flounce as the bending, bare bottomed girl jerked across her desk. The mistress, having administered the painful instruction, grasped the pony-tail and twisted it, dragging the snivelling girl's head up.
'The name,' the mistress demanded, waving the cruel rod slowly before her captive's tear-blurred gaze.
'Bambusa,' mumbled the punished blonde.
'A sharp lesson. I trust you won't forget'
The class then launched into the strategic development of light engineering in the aftermath of the collapsed 'Tiger' economies. Miranda withdrew, her own instruction completed.
Miss Peterson (known as 'Peters' throughout the Institute) used chastisement as encouragement, incorporating it into every aspect of her gym sessions - from the rigorous work-outs to the steaming shower room afterwards. A trim-buttocked, lithe brunette, Peters palmed the dimpled rubber surface of a table tennis bat as she stood beside the vaulting horse.
'Lazy little hounds,' the gym mistress remarked to Miranda, who had been sent into the gym by the Head to observe. 'Come to us here at the Jakob after years of pampering and indolence. Champagne suppers, late nights, jacuzzis,' she snarled contemptuously, betraying her jealous, envious anger towards the decadence of her young charges. 'I soon lick 'em into shape.'
