Back To School, Adult Spanking by Charles
Davenant, M/f spanking
When this couple needs a little
something to spice up their sex lives, they get into a little
creative role play, with explosive results!
Copyright (c) 2007, Charles Davenant all rights reserved, not for sale
I suppose
there comes a time in most people’s marriages when one or other
partner feels it’s time to spice up a routine sex life. In fact
if you look on a bookstall these days, you’d think most people
needed help most of the time. And if you’d wondered whether
anyone reads that stuff, still less acts on it; think again.
Amanda certainly fell into this category. They’d had
a good marriage with perfectly adequate sex for nearly ten years
now, but pressures at work for both of them had left them too
tired in the evenings to attempt any more than a desultory poke
with minimal foreplay followed by the sleep of the dead before
there was even time for a cuddle. Under any other circumstances,
perhaps this would have continued, a routine mutual servicing
with no frills but with no expectations either.
Children had not fitted into the game plan of two
busy professionals. There simply was no good time to start a
family. But her body was well aware of this, and the time had
come for a last ditch attempt on Mother Nature’s part to make
her pregnant.
In short she was randy as hell. Her thoughts began
to turn to sexy undies to turn him on; serving his dinner in
only an apron; stockings rather than tights; no knickers at
all? All these ideas flashed through her mind, and they all
seemed so clichéd. What if he just laughed? She would feel
self-conscious, and he would sense just how ridiculous she felt.
She’d never really thought of her body as anything
out of the ordinary, so she’d never really given it a chance.
She had covered up with baggy clothes a figure that many girls
would die for. Anyway, on the next trip to the supermarket she
picked up a packet of black stockings and slung them in the cart
with the rest of the groceries. After she’d unloaded the car and
put everything away, she awarded herself a break, and promptly
did something she had never done before.
Well aware that all her undies were all worthy M&S,
and none of them black, she took all her clothes off, flung them
to one side (she would always have folded them up before) sat on
the bed and slowly pulled on the stockings on. She felt
surprisingly liberated, and as she stroked them to remove any
wrinkles, she even started contemplating silk stockings: could
one buy such things any more? Still in this reverie, she stood
up slowly and looked at herself in the mirror. As she pulled the
lace tops of the stockings up she turned to examine her back
view. What she saw was a well-toned backside, generous, but
firm. She stood up on her toes to mimic the effect of high
heels, lengthening her legs and tilting her balance. Her hands
ran up and cupped each buttock.
Her back was long, and her fair hair, which at work
she always wore up, now tumbled on to her shoulders. Her hands
wandered across her now sensitized skin, tracing the slight
swell of her stomach, down the lace of the stocking tops, then
pausing as they reached the inside of her thighs. Before she
knew what she was doing, her fingertips had found her pussy-lips
and were tracing their outline, and as they moved through the
tendrils of her hair and down the length of her sex, she could
feel her lips moisten and open like an exotic flower.
The ‘phone rang, and the moment was gone. Michael
was going to be late, but somehow she was quite content to have
a little more time to herself; a little more time to plan; and a
little more time to phrase exactly what she wanted to say to
him, and exactly what she needed.
She slipped on a loose dress and went down to make a
cup of tea, curling up on the sofa with the copy of Cosmo that
she had picked up at Sainsbury’s. She never read women’s
magazines, but her eye had fallen on the “100 Sex Tips to
Improve Your Marriage” flash on the cover, and slung this one in
her trolley.
Instead of turning straight to the feature that had
caught her attention, she leafed through the pages of fashion,
appreciating the photographs of beautiful women in a way she had
not done before, pausing longer over the moisturizer and shower
gel advertisements which allowed the models to appear decorously
naked.
Just as
she was beginning to fancy something a little stronger, she came
upon the “100 ways...” article and was faced with an impossibly
beautiful couple erotically entwined, implying various positions
of intercourse. She found herself trying to make out those
details carefully hidden in shadow, as her hand brushed her
breast through the cotton of her dress and in a reflex her
nipples reacted to her touch.
The article was full of ideas which had never
crossed her mind, some of which she couldn’t imagine anyone
falling for, but several set her mind racing. And though some
were not compatible with suburban life (making love in their
terrace garden would keep the neighbours supplied with gossip
for weeks) and others were quite out of the question (her back
passage was her own, thank you very much) she found herself
inexplicably drawn to others.
She had never thought of herself as being
submissive, beyond being carried over the threshold at the
honeymoon hotel, but the mention of leather restraints intrigued
her, especially as this article could not really go into more
detail, leaving her imagination running free. Rôle-play she had
thought about in the past, and the descriptions here intrigued
her: schoolgirls, harems, damsels in distress...but again she
was apprehensive about his reaction to her initiating such an
idea, and how mortified she would be if he pooh-poohed it.
But the author might have read her mind, for towards
the end of this rather exhaustive list of suggestions came the
following question: “How well do you know your man?” and it went
on: “Bring up the subject of rôle play, but tell him he must
choose the scenario. Do you trust him enough to get it right?
Have you got the guts to see it through if he gets it wrong? But
be careful, this option may only work for the adventurous, but
you have to admit, it beats frilly knickers into a cocked hat.”
This was it. She only had to sow the seed. If he
didn’t want to take it further, she could retain her dignity.
However, she was sure that what she had in mind no man could
resist. When he came home that night, he was very late, and she
was already in bed. She said very little, but left him slightly
puzzled by the enigmatic smile she gave him before turning over
and going to sleep. He was not sure that he had ever seen her
smile a smile quite like this before.
The next day at the office she began to refine her
little plan. Lunchtime saw her still at the computer keyboard,
but working with words rather than figures.
What she came up with went like this:
Dear Michael,
I am writing this as a letter, because
it suits me better to say this in one go, without questions or
interruptions. Don’t worry; it’s nothing sinister. If I say I
want a nice romantic time, what do we normally do? Go out for a
meal, or away for the weekend, don’t we? Well here’s another
idea. How do you fancy an evening in, but with the added spice
of a bit of rôle-play? You choose the scenario (I’d be much too
embarrassed) and spend the cost of a good meal for two on
setting things up. My part of the bargain is that I will go
along with absolutely anything you suggest or ask.
Why do I suggest this? Let’s just say we both
very much need to be taken out of ourselves, and I thought this
might amuse both of us.
Love Amanda
She left for work first the next day, leaving the
note on the breakfast table. He rang her at lunchtime, something
he rarely did.
“I read your letter. Is there something wrong?”
“No,” she replied, “just humour me on this one.” She
laughed: it didn’t quite sound right. Perhaps this wasn’t going
to be so easy.
“I can’t pretend I understand what’s going on with
you....”
“You don’t have to understand. In a way that’s the
whole point. If you don’t want to do this, then let’s just
forget it.” She was feeling cornered, once more picturing
herself parading in silly frilly underwear with him laughing at
her. Not the fantasy she had in mind.
“Who said I didn’t want to do it. It’s just...well,
what’s the catch?
She swallowed hard and tried to sound firm and in
control. “No catch. You trust me: I trust you. Simple really.”
“I still don’t believe it. And when you say
anything...”
“I mean anything.”
“You have to forgive me for sounding suspicious. All
right, let’s see what I can come up with then.”
He put the ‘phone down without saying goodbye, and
she found herself gazing at the mouthpiece as people always do
in television soaps. She was left with the awful feeling she had
done something very silly, and that her newly awakened, nay
rampant sexual desires were about to make a fool of her.
He said no more about it, and she was rather
relieved that for the next couple of weeks life went on in its
usual rather unexceptional way. Then one Saturday she went to
the shed at the side of the house to fetch the lawn mower. For
some reason, it was even more difficult to extract from the
jumble of junk than usual. She started to move things out of the
way. What was this? An old table? With ink stains? She pulled it
further out. It was an old-fashioned school desk, the type with
a hinged lid, extensive gouged graffiti, and complete with a
bakelite inkwell, encrusted with years of disgusting powdered
school ink. It even retained that old familiar schoolroom smell.
So he hadn’t forgotten then.
From that moment she hoped he saw the twinkle in her
eye, and she was sure she saw a new spring in his step. She felt
like a child at Christmas, wondering where else she could look
to find hidden surprises, though if she were honest she had a
pretty good idea what was in store.
Nor did she have to wait long to have her suspicions
confirmed. It was sometime in the middle of the week, and he
enquired before setting of in the morning:
“Are you going round to your mother’s on Sunday?”
“Yes. I thought I’d stay and help her with lunch.
She never cooks for herself, so I’ll make a roast for the two of
us. Will you be golfing? You can have a bite to eat there if you
don’t want to come too.”
“That’s fine. It will fit in with what I have in
mind very well.”
“You’re turn to be mysterious then.”
“Just be prepared for a little surprise.” With that
he pecked her on the cheek and whirled out of the door, leaving
her frankly amazed that her little plan seemed to be working
out. Still, she too had to get to work, so she busied herself
and tried to put any further thought out of her mind. Suffice to
say that once at her desk, not even her considerable will power
could stop her mind from wandering from the job in hand into the
fantasy that she was beginning to weave around that battered old
desk.
Further, the rest of the week was purgatory. It was like
waiting for finals results with the same balance of anticipation
and potential disappointment.
Sunday morning came, and she dressed rather more
plainly than she usually would for a visit to her mother. She
liked to make it a special occasion for her. Today she wanted to
remain rather anonymous, a tabla rasa for Michael to work on
later.
She listened politely to all her Mother’s news and
gossip: the goings on round about and the ailments and problems
of her increasingly aged circle of friends, but she could not
concentrate on any of it, and hoped that her mother hadn’t
noticed that her mind was elsewhere.
She helped with the washing-up, and stayed to chat
for longer than she normally would, unsure how long Michael
needed to prepare. She need not have worried. He had foregone
golf and spent the entire morning perfecting his scenario. Once
embarked on the project, he had been carried along and had long
exceeded his “expensive meal for two” budget in his obsessive
quest for authenticity. He knew she would appreciate every last
detail, just as she had known that she could trust his
judgement.
Ironically, the planning and execution of the
project had occupied his thoughts in a rather abstract way, and
only now was he beginning to felt a sexual frisson. He stood
back to examine his handiwork. He’d thought of adapting his
study, but there literally wasn’t room to swing a cat, or
anything else in that line, so he decided to adapt the dining
room to his purpose.
He was able to slide his leather-topped desk (a
rather splendid if old-fashioned object “liberated” from some
erstwhile office refit) from the study into the room next door
and dismantle the table, and store its constituent parts back in
the study. From the rest of the house he ransacked the large
leather chair from the drawing room; the umbrella-stand from the
hallway (ideal for his recently acquired selection of canes); a
decanter and glasses and his cigar case from the sideboard; and
the standard lamp with a low-wattage bulb to cast a suitably
somber light on the proceedings. With the curtains closed and a
large Persian rug marking the centre of the floor, he had
created a reasonable facsimile of the headmaster’s study that
many boys at any rate of us remember with dread. The only other
furniture was the desk that he was unaware had been discovered,
and this prize possession from the local antique shop (a junk
shop really, as so many of them are) he placed to one side,
ready to take pride of place later in the proceedings.
For his part, he was wearing a dark suit, white
shirt and sober club tie. He’d borrowed a gown from a younger
colleague who was a recent graduate. As he test-ran the final
set-up, twirling rather playfully in the chair, he picked up the
pièce de résistance on the desk in front of him. Amanda’s
end-of-term report, lovingly recreated on his DTP software at
the office, right down to a fictitious school crest, with a
selection of truly appalling grades, and suitably dismissive
remarks from equally fictitious members of staff.
Meanwhile Amanda was getting into her car with
increasing trepidation. What exactly was waiting for her at
home? As she pulled up she could see that the curtains were
closed. Should she use her keys or ring the bell? She decided to
ring the bell lest she should spoil the surprise.
Michael answered the door, dressed in the suit but
not the gown.
“Come in young lady,” he said without much
conviction. She scuttled in and tried to play along, looking
suitably meek. “Through here.” He ushered her into her own
drawing room.
“So have you been a very naughty girl then?” She
turned to see a quizzical look on his face. Oh, come on, this
was just silly.
“Right then, I can see you’re not taking this
seriously.” He reached down behind the sofa and produced a small
suitcase.
“Here.” He opened it. “Things to make you feel the
part. And from now on I really do expect you to do as you are
told.” He laid out a white blouse, white knee socks, a short
green skirt, and old fashioned blue school knickers.
She gasped as he reached up her rather demure tweed
skirt and pulled down her tights and pants in one expert sweep.
Suddenly her bottom felt bare and itchy against the material of
her skirt, and she let out a gasp of surprise.
“If you’re going to complain then have one of these
to be going on with.” And her skirt was whipped up and a
stinging blow landed on her bottom. “Time to put these on,
perhaps.” He motioned. “Go on then!”
She gathered up the clothes and rushed upstairs to
her room hobbled by the tights still round her ankles. She
closed the door behind her, and leaning back on it tried to calm
her thoughts. Suddenly it all seemed so demeaning, humiliating,
and Michael seemed so detached and unlike himself. She dumped
the clothes on the bed, and kicked off her shoes. But the
initial shock was subsiding and she turned to the pile of
schoolgirl clothes. Very aware that she was naked under her
skirt she reached for the plain blue knickers just to cover
herself up. She pulled them on, but designed as they were for a
schoolgirl, they were really tight over her distinctly womanly
backside. They pulled her buttocks together and bit into her
crotch.
Stepping out of her skirt she saw her reflection and, lifting
her blouse, rather liked the back view she could see. The cotton
barely contained her backside, and the knickers crept up
slightly every time she moved. She pulled off the rest of her
clothes, and after another glance in the mirror, buttoned up the
school blouse, leaving off her bra, and pulled up the white knee
socks. Any trepidation she had felt had vanished and she was
beginning to enjoy the charade.
From her wardrobe she selected a black high-heeled
pair of shoes, and again inspected herself and the effect these
had on her thighs and the jut of her bottom.
Just a
hint of rebellion for this young lady. Finally she drew up the
tiny green skirt he had provided, and some more glances in the
mirror confirmed that she only had to bend over slightly for the
half moons of flesh below the line of the knickers to peep out.
She
tried to retain her dignity as she walked out of the bedroom,
but was reduced to tottering on the heels to manage the stairs.
Even as she did so she was aware of her bottom as never before,
the first imprint of his hand still stung slightly.
He
heard her coming down. “In here please,” he called out.
As
she entered her dining room, now transformed, he was sitting
impassively with a flat cane across his lap.
“Don’t we knock then? Come in. Turn round. Regulation shoes? I
think not. You know what happens to girls who flout the dress
code!” His voice was suddenly harsher, and she felt her glance
fall to the floor as if she really had done something wrong.
“Have you any idea what’s in this report?” He brandished it and
she turned slightly to see what he had in his hand. “Did I say
turn round? I don’t think so. Try this one from you gym
mistress: —A lazy girl whose natural talent for gymnastics is
totally wasted. —Touch your toes and let’s see how supple you
are.”
She bent over, knowing full well what her back view
would look like.
“Oh, natural talent...I think you can do better
that.” She felt his hand gently push her lower, and she was
aware that, with her having bent down so far, the knickers were
covering very little.
“Impressive, I can see you do have a gift.” He
lifted the tiny skirt and ran his hands up her thighs, cupping
her exposed buttocks for a moment. His first strokes were soft,
almost caressing, taking her weight with one arm around her,
just below her breasts. The sensation was not unpleasant. Then
he pulled the material of the knickers up and into the crack,
and two strong, stinging blows landed, one on each buttock. She
gasped, but was desperate not to cry out.
“Stand up then, and let’s have a look.” He tucked the skirt into
her waistband and pulled the knickers down to frame the full
swell of her backside. “I seem to have made an impression
already. Does it hurt?”
Hearing herself say: “Not really”, she realised her mistake too
late, as two further slaps hit her, making her buttocks jiggle.
“But
you felt that...and these.” More heavy smacks rained down.
Suddenly the stinging turned to pain, and she felt sobs well up
inside her. He stopped as suddenly as he had started.
“Go
and stand over there and let’s see what else you report reveals.
Perhaps you can give me some good reasons why I shouldn’t use
the cane next.” She could hear him pulling the school desk into
the centre of the room. “Let’s try this then.” He patted the top
of the small desk and sat on the edge. She turned to come
towards him.
“Stay
there please. Hands on your head.”
She
obeyed slowly, and as she raised her arms, her breasts rubbed
against the blouse, her nipples erect and unusually sensitive.
As she stood, the warmth of her bottom was spreading round and
infusing her private parts with a totally unexpected longing to
be touched.
After
what seemed an age she felt his hands once more caressing her
bottom cheeks. She shifted her weight and opened her legs
slightly, and his hands took up this cue, brushing the inside of
her thighs.
“Ah, ah,” he tutted, “You’re not supposed to be
enjoying this you know.” She was wriggling to bring her sex in
contact with his hand, which he withdrew as he spoke. “Let’s
see.” He pulled her by the ear over to the desk and put the
report in front of her, bending her over to read it at the same
time. He had the report in the other hand. By now she was
so turned on that she felt desperate for some sexual contact. He
walked around in front of her, and reached for the case with the
cane in it. He flexed the cane and pointed to each subject
report, every one worse than the one before. The cane tapped
down the list.
“Not very good is it. One stroke for each subject
don’t you think? Well?”
“Yes Sir.” She was enjoying playing along.
“Right down over the desk then, and hold on to the
legs.” The posture was very demeaning, and she could feel her
bottom and thighs stretched over the angled desktop. He swished
the cane through the air a couple of times, and she began to
wonder just how much this would hurt. Still, she had agreed to
anything, and aching for stimulation as she was, anything was
what she was going to take.
The first thing she felt was his steadying the cane
against her bum, sliding it to and fro to establish his aim.
Instinctively she clenched her buttocks.
“Nice and relaxed, now.” He cupped her buttocks with
his hands, and measured the cane against her once more. She felt
the sting of pain almost before she had heard the swish though
the air: this really hurt. She bit her lip anxious not to cry
out. He thrashed her three more times on either side of the
first blow, and then paused. The stinging was appalling. But the
more the blood rushed to her over-heated backside, the more she
ached for him to take her. Couldn’t he tell how excited she was?
He rubbed her, where the cane had brought up slight ridges. God,
this was purgatory. The cane came down twice more in the same
spot. This time she had to cry out. There was no way she could
stop herself, half gasps and half sobs now.
“As far as I can see, we are only half-way down the list
here.”
She had certainly had enough now.
“Please, no more, that really hurts!”
“Well then, some alternative must be found. I’m sure
you can perform some useful service for me.”
“I’m sure I can...” She wriggled her bottom, really
to ease the discomfort, but perhaps it would give him the hint
he seemed to need. She was still over the desk, her bosom flat
against it, staring at the floor. Staring at her own carpet in
fact, aware that she had been carried along by the fantasy, and
was only now coming back down to earth. “Please God let him
touch me now!” she longed
There was a movement behind her and then, without
warning, he thrust deep into her from behind. She gasped with
the release of feeling him inside her now. She had never felt so
aroused, and she was so wet that he was able to enter her easily
adopting an easy motion.
“No, no. Harder! Harder!” she cried, and his slow
rhythm turned to a frantic bucking. By now she was nearly
passing out with the unbelievable sensations that swept through
her, again and again. She grasped the legs of the desk, her
knuckles white with the effort, and he was slamming her against
the lid with the strength of his onslaught. She moaned and
whimpered, the breath almost being knocked out of her each time.
“Yes, yes. Now! Now!” They came together. And for
both of them the experience was devastating. His release felt
like a flood and she could feel her body drawing it into her.
After a few moments she started to get up.
“No. Stay there a second.” Michael’s voice now, not
the headmaster. “Just one more thing.”
There was flash, and she turned to see him holding
their Polaroid camera.
“I can’t let this go with out a record. It may never
happen again.”
As she stood up, he pulled out the first print, and
laid it to one side.
“Pull up your knickers then, and let’s have one of
the contrite schoolgirl.” She sat on the edge of the desk, the
skirt still ridiculously high up her thighs, and smiled into the
camera.
“If you want to get out of that gear, I’ll start
putting this room back again.” Neither of them wanted to talk
quite yet. As he started to move things out of the way she crept
out, taking the pictures with her. Upstairs she flopped on the
bed, not wanting to take her outfit off quite yet, and looked at
the Polaroid’s, transfixed by the sight of her poor bottom,
still red and striped in the photograph, still tingling in
reality as she rubbed it gently. And the schoolgirl shot was
undeniably naughty; no wonder he reacted the way he did. As she
propped the two pictures on the bedside table, she heard him
mounting the stairs and reluctantly began to remove the uniform
which had now done its job. As she untied and toyed with the
tie, other possibilities began to occur to her...
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