The Academy

by Arabella Knight

  Miranda lay helpless and supine, bottom up, over Miss Frobisher’s knees. The teacher placed her white hand down onto the pupil’s nape and pinioned the girl in the punishment position, parting her thighs a fraction in order to take the weight more comfortably. Eager for the chastisement, Miranda raised her rounded bottom up, signalling her impatient desire for the spanking to commence. Her teacher was not to be hurried. Such moments were to be fully savoured. Each fleeting moment should be spun into eternity.

  She carefully steadied and positioned the naked girl to her supreme satisfaction before attending to the legs and feet, which she trapped firmly beneath her own arched foot. The tight white shorts, still binding Miranda’s knees together in sweet bondage, ensured that the buttocks were roundly bunched together in a geometry of perfection, fully and passively prepared for their ravishment. Miss Frobisher placed her right hand down lightly on the double domes of vulnerable, naked flesh. The bare buttocks shuddered and jerked responsively, as Miranda shivered with pleasurable expectation. The palm of the steady hand depressed one soft bottom cheek, then the strong fingers splayed out, pushing away the opposite dome of trembling flesh. The dark cleft between was forced open a fraction. Then wider still. Miss Frobisher flexed her fingers out to their full extent. The valley between the creamy hills yawned.

  With at first her thumb, then following with fingertips, the teacher strummed the pupil’s sensitive flesh until Miranda bleated like a lamb. Ripples of immeasurable delight radiated outwards until her belly and breasts were ablaze. A determined thumbnail scratched gently into the very depths of the dark cleft. Miranda squealed and bucked in a paroxysm of pleasure. Her mind and body were now capitulating in sweet surrender, her wet delta weeping freely into the taut, powder-blue denim that stretched across her teacher’s warm, fragrant lap.

  ‘Please! Please, now,’ she moaned silently as she neared the delicious brink.

  Miss Frobisher seemed to sense the mute supplications and conceded to their demands. She slapped the full bottom tenderly. Then spanked it again. And then again. The punished girl sighed blissfully and settled down for the assault of skin on skin. She thrust her buttocks upwards in her eagerness for the fiery joy to come. Miss Frobisher knew full well that discipline, like music, was enhanced by strict observance of timing, by obedience to the dictates of rhythm and beat. She deliberately paused after the first four stinging slaps, and gently rubbed the glowing, rounded cheeks of punished flesh. And then she spanked again. A sharp flurry of harsh smacks cracking like pistol shots as they exploded across the firm domes of ivory. Miranda moaned sweetly, her sheer delight curdling in her throat.

  Spank. Pause. The punishing hand hovered, stayed for a moment in its delicious threat. Spank. Pause. Again the hand hung motionless over the quivering, blushing cheeks. Spank. Spank.

  Miranda, in her swimming delirium, found the delightful delays as intensely pleasurable as the spirited slaps and solid smacks of hard hand on pliant, vulnerable flesh. She turned her head eagerly, trying to look up over her left shoulder at the beautiful tormentress under whose spell and in whose thrall she was utterly helpless.

  Miss Frobisher, totally absorbed in the magic she was weaving, merely placed a single, dominant finger on Miranda’s parted lips in a gesture for absolute silence, then, turning Miranda’s head face down once more, gathered up a loose handful of her blonde hair and re-established the desired, subjugated position. A trembling thrill coursed through the entire length of Miranda’s nakedness. She spilled her hot silver freely from between her clamped thighs.

  Smack. Smack. She jerked, squeezing her weeping, sticky thighs even tighter together. Smack. Her tiny white toes scrabbled half an inch above the carpet. Smack. Miss Frobisher tightened her controlling grip on Miranda’s hair, and, inclining her tightly denimed leg in against Miranda’s soft, naked lower thighs and swelling calves, pinioned her completely. A touch of severity introduced itself into the rhythmically paced and strictly controlled spanking.

  Smack. Smack. Miranda squirmed, twisting from side to side as she attempted to roll free from the fiercely tender punishment that scalded her bare bottom so searchingly. Her little hands fluttered pathetically in their bid to ward off the burning joy.

  ‘Hands down,’ came the crisp admonishment.

  Miranda obeyed instantly. Fresh slaps scorched the crown of her superb rump, then, as Miranda twisted and writhed, the left cheek and the twin right cheek. The spanking hand left the throbbing globes fully ablaze. Both satin-skinned hillocks of pliant flesh were now completely rubescent with a scarlet glow. The teacher sensed her pupil’s approaching climax. The arching spine and rigid thighs spoke their own words of imminent carnal liquifaction.

  The first paroxysms of spasmodic delight caused Miranda’s hips to jerk and shudder as she hovered perilously on the very brink of abandonment. Quickly wrenching away the restricting bondage of the white shorts, the punisher turned the punished over onto her scorched bottom across the edge of the divan bed and knelt down before her, burying her lust-slackened features deeply into the gaping, splayed wetness that beckoned.

  Miss Frobisher’s tongue licked and flickered, darted and probed until Miranda, with her white knuckles gripping the eiderdown, tumbled headlong into the spinning vortex of orgasm. As her soft, silken shrieks split the air, the teacher gripped her pupil’s buttocks in a fierce, controlling grasp of desire, sinking her dominant fingers into the lambent fleshy orbs.

  Miranda bucked and gyrated like a wild pony under the first taste of the whip that would tame. Slipping down onto the soft carpet, her reddened rump corrugated against the edge of the bed as she slithered, the delirious girl hugged the triumphant teacher with open arms and wet thighs. She encircled the denim clad hips with her own hot, sticky thighs and, firm bosom to firm bosom, squeezed with all her might. They melted into paradisical fusion for timeless moments until brought savagely back to dull reality by the stern voice calling from beyond the outer door.

  ‘Miss Frobisher? Are you there?’

  It was the headmistress. Miss Frobisher sup pressed a giggle and bundled Miranda’s naked body under the bed, throwing socks, vest and white shorts after her.

  ‘In here, headmistress,’ she called, in a voice as neutral and even-toned as her recent excitement would allow.

  ‘About the floral centre piece, my dear,’ boomed Mrs Boydd-Black striding into the bedroom without ceremony. ‘I do think white roses so very becoming, don’t you?’

  The headmistress took in the scene at a glance. Especially Miranda’s empty sherry glass tossed drunkenly next to Miss Frobisher’s own. And the greenband curled up on the floor by the foot of the bed.

  ‘Dark in here. Headache?’

  ‘No. Yes. Just taking a little nap.’

  ‘Jolly good,’ came the noncommittal reply. Mrs Boydd-Black chose to say little, but her eyes swept the rumpled bed.

  Under the bed, sniffling a little dust, Miranda sneezed.

  ‘Got a stray in here?’ Not a good idea that, encouraging strays. Jolly good.’ Mrs Boydd-Black departed.

  The art teacher sighed. The headmistress knew something was afoot. That last remark had nothing to do with the nearby farmyard kittens that plagued the Academy.

  ‘Has she gone?’ came the whisper from beneath the bed.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Miss Frobisher. ‘Time for you to go, as well.’

  Miranda held out her hand. Miss Frobisher gathered it up and planted a heavy kiss, first on the palm and then onto the back.

  ‘Here, don’t forget your greenband.’ She passed it across to Miranda who had just hastily dressed, sheathing her ripe softness in the cool taut white cotton.

  ‘Thanks.’

  In the larger drawing room, the fire still blazed brightly. So did the curiously fierce sparkle in the tutor’s eyes.

  ‘Here, for Clarissa.’ She dropped half a dozen Camels into Miranda’s open palm.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Frobisher.’

  ‘Wait. You have blanket fluff
in your hair. Let me …and you must call me Emily, when we are alone.’

  ‘May I call you Emily soon? Tonight? Oh, please …’ Miranda, only a few weeks ago so cool and aloof, whimpered frantically.

  ‘Impatient girl. We shall see. We shall see,’ the beautiful teacher smiled, her exquisite hands, so light and yet so capable, aflutter.

  Miranda stole out of the room and softly paced along the carpeted corridor leading from the west wing.

  ‘You have a visitor, Miranda,’ the headmistress said, stepping out suddenly from a shadowed alcove.

  Miranda gasped, dropping the Camels in her alarm. They lay at her feet like accusing white fingers pointing out her guilt.

  ‘Pick them up quickly, girl. I did not think that you succumbed to that particular vice.’

  Blushing, Miranda stooped and scrabbled at the cigarettes with anxious fingers. The headmistress took two steps forward, standing dominantly, legs astride, looming large over the bending blonde. One polished brogue rested inches from Miranda’s fingertips, trapping a stray cigarette.

  ‘Miss Frobisher can be very kind to her special little friends. Did you get sherry?’

  Miranda remained silent. She held her breath in anxious anticipation. The brogue moved, the polished toecap arching up to release the slightly squashed Camel.

  ‘Are they for Jane?’

  How the hell does she know everything? Well, almost everything, Miranda wondered as she regained her upright stance, trying to avoid the penetrating, shrewd gaze of the headmistress.

  ‘Or are they perhaps for Clarissa? Yes. No doubt they are. A kindly gesture, my girl. Clarissa probably needs a little treat after the rigours of her Chair.’

  She does know everything, Miranda swore to herself silently.

  ‘It is no bad thing that our Miss Frobisher has apparently taken an… interest in you my dear. It will, I trust, help you settle in here at the Academy. I’m rather afraid you have made something of a poor start here. But Emily will guide you. Does she let you call her Emily yet?’

  Miranda, puzzled by the identity of her visitor, nodded her head absently.

  ‘Jolly good. Come along, then. But first, I think, you may pop in briefly to say hello to Clarissa. Be sure to tell her to open her window while smoking.’

  Miranda smiled, in spite of herself. Mrs Boydd-Black really was amazing. She seemed to be quite human underneath it all. Tolerant, even. As long as she knew everything, that is. And total knowledge in itself, Miranda suddenly realised, was exactly the same as total control.

  ‘Your visitor awaits you in my private office.

  Knock before you enter. You must not ask any questions and, most importantly, discuss any aspect of life here at the Academy. Normally, visitors are not allowed.’ Neither are letters or phone calls thought Miranda ruefully. ‘Nor must you disclose any of our methods, customs or practices. On this point as on all others I am adamant. Do you understand?’

  Miranda nodded hastily.

  ‘Jolly good.’

  Clarissa received the handful of Camels with wideeyed delight. She hugged and kissed Miranda and, in answer to Miranda’s solicitude, peeled off her shorts and displayed her generous, gorgeously honey-hued rump.

  ‘Look. No nasty bruises. Bit sore, though,’ she smiled.

  ‘Good,’ Miranda grinned. ‘I hope I didn’t hurt your poor bum.’

  ‘Liar. You loved every minute of it. Who doesn’t?’ Clarissa laughed good-naturedly. ‘Where the hell did you get these?’

  ‘Secret,’ Miranda shrugged enigmatically.

  ‘Miss Frobisher?’ Clarissa countered in a teasing tone.

  Miranda struggled to conceal her surprise. Nevertheless, she blushed.

  ‘Thought so. Did Emily give Miranda a little… treat, then?’ Clarissa laughed, lit a Camel and exhaled luxuriously, expelling the blue smoke out through the narrow opening of her fortified window.

  ‘Don’t tell Jane,’ Clarissa warned, wiping a fleck of wet tobacco from her thick lower lip with her fingernail.

  Miranda was immediately surprised — and later uneasy — at the remark.

  Mr Porteous was just finishing his last forkful of heavily creamed strawberry gateau when Miranda knocked dutifully and then entered into what she assumed to be Mrs Boydd-Black’s private office. To her utter amazement, the office was sumptuously furnished and opulently decorated. Powder pink flock wallpaper was edged with a gold gilt dado trim. Heavy Victorian-looking glasses shimmered in the intense glare of a huge candelabra. Decorative Adam chairs encircled an imposing High Dutch period desk. It was an effete, decadent room. Miranda frowned. How unlike the Mrs Boydd-Black she thought she knew.

  At the grotesque desk, clearly reflected in its polished depths, she glimpsed the piggy face of the loathsome family solicitor swallowing the last of his glutinous gateau. Wiping his soiled snout with an exaggerated flourish of his starched white napkin, Porteous nodded to a chair. Incongruously, a state-of-the-art lap-top computer blinked at his elbow. He had evidently just been using it. Columns of figures winked from the screen. Financial spread-sheets, Miranda hazarded. Porteous pocketed two discs and put what looked like a video cassette into his yawning briefcase. Miranda’s frown deepened.

  ‘Good afternoon, Lady Miranda,’ he almost purred.

  Miranda had been unable to mask her disappointment. She had expected to see Aunt Emma. Uncle Peter. Possibly one of her parents. Indeed, anyone would have been more welcome than this obnoxious little toad.

  ‘I trust I find you well?’

  Miranda remained silent, hating his open perusal of her youthful fulsomeness which her Academy uniform both accentuated and revealed.

  ‘I am told that you have not settled in as quickly as expected. Not made your mark, I am given to understand.’

  Miranda turned these words over in her mind. They were not without a certain irony. The Academy had certainly made its mark — frequently — on her. Usually faint red stripes or crimson handprints.

  ‘I was merely passing through the area and thought it fitting to call in. Normally, visitors are discouraged. But Mrs Boydd-Black agreed to make an exception. A delightful woman.’

  But why? Miranda puzzled. What was this toad really doing here? Making free use of her head mistress’soffice. Using a computer. Eating gateau as though he almost owned the place…

  ‘The Academy has a splendid reputation,’ the solicitor’s voice droned on, like a bullish chairman at a floatation launch for prospective investors, ‘quite splendid.’

  With a flush suffusing his pink, piggy face, the solicitor sat back, palms pressed together, and gazed up at three naked cherubs wrestling in a distinctly uncherubic tussle on the ceiling. His voice droned on and on. Miranda watched him with gathering loathing. At last he paused.

  ‘You seem to me to be remarkably quiet. Nothing at all to say?’

  No, thought the furious girl. Nothing to say. Porteous must know nothing of her humiliation and suffering here. That would be too much for her to bear. But she could send out a written SOS using this jackanapes as her messenger. Yes. Of course, that was it. A brief note to Aunt Emma, full of contrite promises, begging her to come and remove Miranda from the Academy.

  As Miranda weighed up the possibilities of this course of action — pen and paper sat waiting for her on the desk — the solicitor commenced on a bland, innocuous catechism of meaningless questions. Miranda remained monosyllabic in her terse, grudging answers. She gave nothing away at all. She certainly would not give him the satisfaction of letting him, of all people, know how miserable she was.

  As he continued to twitter away pompously, she leaned forward, took paper and pen in hand and hastily scribbled a brief but telling note to her aunt. She folded the piece of paper carefully, placed it in a large white envelope and addressed it to her aunt. Did Porteous know that all forms of communication with the outside world were strictly forbidden? Mustering up as casual a tone as her beating heart would allow, she handed the note across the desk.


  ‘You are very kind to call in and see me, Mr Porteous.’

  He bowed his greasy head, acknowledging and accepting the compliment.

  ‘Be so kind as to pass that to Auntie. Just my best wishes to her and Uncle Peter,’ she said guilessly. Her thin smile hid a trembling heart.

  ‘Certainly,’ replied the solicitor, pocketing the envelope. He beamed with a sudden sense of his own vital self-importance. His almost lidless eyes flickered like a lizard’s.

  The brief interview concluded, Miranda shook his limp, soft hand mechanically and returned to her bleak little dormitory. She gave little thought now to the real purpose of his visit. Suffice that he had arrived, seen her and agreed to pass on her message. A sudden rush of relief swept over her. How fortunate she was to have this sudden opportunity to arrange her release from the Academy. Aunt Emma, she felt sure, would not let her down.

  As the time for her appointment with Matron neared, Miranda concentrated hard. She had, she knew, to find some way of resisting this tormenting monster. But how? Direct disobedience would only bring down harsher punishments onto her defenceless buttocks. Matron wielded a fierce and unerring strap and seemed to be deaf to squeals for mercy. Indeed, pleas for pity only seemed to inflame her all the more. There must be a way. There must.

  Outside the san door, Miranda hesitated. From within came the sound of stifled sobs. Miranda grew pale, her hand fluttering anxiously as it paused before knocking to seek admission. Matron’s stern voice rose above the bitter weeping. Miranda shuddered and tapped twice on the door.

  ‘Come,’ commanded Matron.

  Stepping into the brightly lit, white-tiled room, Miranda was horrified to see Jaya, sitting on a stool, her hands tied behind her back, head bowed down and weeping openly. Around her feet lay her once crowning glory of luxurious, rich, dark hair. Matron, a glinting pair of scissors in one hand, stood behind Jaya. With her free hand Matron was roughly massaging the recently shorn, stubbled head of the heart-broken girl.