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A PROPER LESSON by Fidelis Blue,
M/f corporal punishment
An old-fashioned school-house punishment for Lucy -
exactly what this woman needs!
Fidelis Blue is the author of
three Pink Flamingo Bdsm novels. All are available in paperback
and ebook versions.
Sophie & The Society (ebook
version)
Under My Thumb (ebook
version)
Emma: The Education of a Submissive (ebook
version)
Not For Sale Copyright
(c) 2003, all rights reserved
Lucy got out of her car and locked the door. As usual there was no one about
at this hour in the quiet suburban street. Nevertheless, she drew her coat
about her lest anyone should glimpse what she wore underneath. She strode up
the path to the front door, a tingle of anticipation in the pit of her
stomach. He’d hinted there would be something special this time. But what?
A new implement to chastise her with, perhaps? A while ago he’d mentioned
nipple clamps, but there had been no further word. She was curious to try
them.
Mr Parkinson opened the door immediately and she stepped inside. Without a
word he led her to the schoolroom. She took off her coat and handed it to
him. He eyed her up and down, closely inspecting her uniform, the crisp
white blouse underneath the black gym-slip, the hem so short it barely
covered the tops of her regulation black stockings. His eyes travelled down
to her flat shoes with the strap across the top. The first time that she’d
reported, he’d told her that they hadn’t been polished properly. It
wasn’t a mistake she’d repeated.
He made a gesture and obediently she lifted her skirt for him to inspect her
black cotton knickers, drawn tight over the suspenders supporting her
stockings. He lifted one of her pigtails, tied with blue ribbon, then let it
fall.
“Very well,” he said. “Take your seat.”
In the centre of the room was an old-fashioned school desk, the wooden bench
and the desk with a hinged top forming a single unit. Lucy sat down, lifting
her skirt out as she had been taught, feeling the plain unvarnished wood
cool against her thighs, bare above the stockings. Mr Parkinson went to the
large wooden table at the top of the room, sat in his high-backed wooden
chair and opened a drawer. From it he took two objects, a piece of paper and
a tawse. Lucy was thoroughly familiar with the latter, a strip of heavy
black leather narrowed to a handle at one end and slit down the middle at
the other. Mr Parkinson had initially introduced it as the choice of
Scottish schoolmasters down the years, a tried and tested implement of
discipline. Since then it had been tested most severely on Lucy’s
quivering bottom. There was no doubt of its efficacy.
Mr Parkinson laid the tawse on top of the table and returned to stand in
front of Lucy holding the piece of paper.
“Arithmetic,” he said. “Five questions, ten minutes. Start now.”
Lucy sighed as she took her exercise book and pencil from inside her desk.
How she hated doing these wretched sums. Without a calculator she struggled
with long multiplication and division. She would have liked, just for once,
to get them all right, just to see Mr Parkinson’s face if he were cheated
out of the ritual of humiliation and punishment which routinely followed her
failures. The provocation of an all-correct answer sheet might induce him to
think of something special.
But it was not to be. Try as she might, she could not complete the sums in
the time allotted. After ten minutes Mr Parkinson called her forward. She
stood in front of his table as he sat looking up at her. She was not allowed
to look him in the eye and she held her gaze cast downwards. He took her
exercise book from her. Rapidly he went through the answers, making frequent
marks with a red pen.
“Still as bad as ever,” he said at length. “Two correct out of
five.”
She was silent. Mr Parkinson picked up the tawse and tapped it lightly in
his palm.
“No doubt you expect the usual punishment?”
“I suppose so, sir,” she answered.
“But did I not warn you last time that there must be improvement?”
She thought back. “Yes, sir.”
“And yet there has been none. Additional measures would seem to be
required, do they not?”
Lucy said nothing. Suddenly Mr Parkinson brought the tawse down sharply
across the table. Lucy jumped at the loud crack.
“Do they not?” he repeated.
“Yes, sir,” she agreed.
“It’s time you reported to the headmaster.”
“The headmaster, sir?” She didn’t understand. There was no such
person.
Mr Parkinson glanced at his watch. “He will be here in ten minutes.
Prepare yourself for the worst.”
Lucy was confused. If this was some new game, what were the rules? How was
she meant to respond? Up till now everything in the ritual had been
controlled, explained down to the last detail.
“Go and stand in the corner with your hands behind your head. Feet
together. Don’t move.”
Lucy went to stand in the approved manner. Sometimes Mr Parkinson kept her
like that for half an hour or more, giving her time to contemplate the
punishment which lay in store while he pretended to busy himself with
papers. This time he left the room.
Lucy stood facing the wall, filled with apprehension. Surely a third party
was not about to be introduced, without warning? Everything till now had
been with her consent. From the initial contact until their first
face-to-face meeting there had been a month of intense email interchange,
until Lucy was confident he understood what she wanted, what the limits
were. She then met and talked to him in a public place twice before she
agreed to go to his place. He’d given her a conducted tour, with
ill-disguised pride showing her the little schoolroom he had furnished. On
the second visit he’d handed her a uniform, tailored to the measurements
she’d given him. The first time they’d played the little game the
spanking had been no more than symbolic, a few flicks across her bottom.
Before she left she’d told him she was willing for him to begin in earnest
next time. They agreed on a safe word and she told him her conditions.
Neither would ever know the other’s real name. She wouldn’t tell him
where she lived, nor give her phone number, nor ever discuss her private
life.
“For you,” she said, “I exist only inside these walls. Here I am
Felicity Grantham.”
“And I am Mr Parkinson,” he had said. “But you will call me sir.”
While she waited, Lucy lowered one hand and slipped it up under her skirt.
She slid a finger inside her knickers, touching her sex. She loved to feel
herself wet with anticipation. Then she heard the doorbell ring, and the
door open. Hurriedly she resumed her position, both hands behind her head.
Deep in her belly twin threads of dread and desire formed a knot. Was there
really going to be another player in the game? She heard two pairs of
footsteps coming to the schoolroom door, and heard it open. She dared not
look round.
“This is Grantham,” said Mr Parkinson. “She’s recalcitrant. I am not
sure whether it is laziness or obstinacy, but her arithmetic shows no
improvement despite repeated correction.”
“I see,” said another voice, a man’s voice, deep, authoritative.
“And is it only her arithmetic you have cause to complain of?”
“Unfortunately not,” said Mr Parkinson. “There have been other
offences.”
“What are they?” asked the other man.
“Slovenliness, shoes not cleaned, seams of the stockings not straight.
Occasional insolence when her faults are pointed out.”
“Has she ever refused discipline?”
“Not exactly refused. But sometimes there’s an attitude problem.”
You’d have an attitude problem if someone was going to beat your ass with
a strap, thought Lucy, but she remained staring at the wall.
“Anything else?”
“There’s incontrovertible evidence of a sluttish nature. On occasion I
have caught her playing with herself, a hand up her skirts.”
“That’s serious,” said the man. “We cannot allow the slightest
suggestion of lasciviousness. It must be nipped in the bud.”
“The last time,” said Mr Parkinson, “I was obliged to chastise both
the offending hand and the place where it had been lodged.”
How well Lucy remembered it, standing with her palm outstretched while Mr
Parkinson lashed it with the tawse, then kneeling on the floor, her legs
apart, her skirt over her waist, knickers half way down her thighs while Mr
Parkinson stood over her and thrashed her between the legs till she wept
real tears.
She heard the two men go to the other end of the room.
“Turn around, girl, and come here,” called Mr Parkinson.
As she moved towards them Lucy stole a glance at the newcomer. He was taller
than Mr Parkinson, thin and balding. He wore heavy spectacles and a dark
grey suit, and like Mr Parkinson a black academic gown. He was sitting at
the table, Mr Parkinson standing to one side.
Lucy stood in front of the table, looking down at her feet.
“Tell me, girl, have you been indecent?”
“Indecent, sir?” said Lucy, with just a hint of the coquette.
“You know exactly what I mean. Have you touched yourself where you should
not?”
“Oh, no, sir,” she said with jaunty mock-innocence.
“Do you believe her?” the other man said to Mr Parkinson.
“There’s one way to find out,” said Mr Parkinson.
He took hold of Lucy’s hand and raised the fingers to his nose.
“Unmistakable,” he pronounced. “Filthy little trollop.”
The headmaster, as Lucy now thought of him, got to his feet.
“I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour,” he said sharply. “She
needs a proper thrashing.”
The headmaster went to a corner of the room and opened a large black leather
case. He took out a bamboo cane, very thin, about three feet long. He
approached her, swishing it through the air. The sound made Lucy’s knees
tremble.
“Has she been caned before?”
“No,” said Mr Parkinson. “So far only the tawse.”
“You are too soft on her,” the headmaster said. “It’s time she had a
proper lesson.”
He pushed Lucy forward, bending her over the table.
“Hold her wrists,” he said to Mr Parkinson. “I don’t want her
wriggling.”
Previously, Lucy had taken her punishment without restraints, submitting to
the tawse without moving, no matter what the temptation to soothe her
stinging behind. Evidently something stronger was in store this time.
Mr Parkinson sat on the other side of the table and gripped her arms
tightly. The headmaster lifted Lucy’s skirt, then pulled her knickers down
as far as her stocking tops. Suddenly she felt horribly vulnerable, more so
than ever before.
Positioning himself behind her, he measured the distance to Lucy’s bottom,
placing the cane across the centre of her buttocks. She forced herself to
breathe deeply. When Mr Parkinson had punished her, he had always started
slowly. The initial strokes were sometimes scarcely more than a caress; only
gradually did he work up to full power. This time, she sensed, there would
be no such preliminaries. She must expect pain from the beginning.
She felt the cane lifted from her skin, then came a pause, followed by a
swish as it descended. The thwack as it struck her behind surprised her for
a moment, since for a split second there seemed to be no pain. Then came the
sharp, intense agony of the blow. It seemed to slice through her flesh,
penetrating deep into the muscles of the buttocks. None of the pain had
abated before she heard the cane hiss on another downward fall, and a second
searing blow fell, an inch or so lower than the first. Again there was the
split-second delay and the awful pain.
“That’s two,” said the headmaster. “How many ought we to give
her?”
“She’s had her chances to learn a lesson,” said Mr Parkinson. “She
just hasn’t taken them. You are right, it’s time to stop being soft.”
“A dozen, then,” said the headmaster. “Plus three more for poor
arithmetic.”
Oh god, please, no, Lucy said to herself. I can’t, I just can’t. The
next stroke of the cane hit a spot just above the first two. It was followed
quickly by the fourth, higher again. Lucy struggled to free her hands. She
wanted so badly to rub her behind, anything to ease the stinging pain. But
Mr Parkinson’s grip was firm. The cane rose and fell again. This time it
landed almost exactly on top of the first blow. Lucy cried out as the agony
bit deep into her flesh. The sixth was just below, on another spot
tenderised by the initial assault.
Lucy was breathing hard. She knew she was nearly half way there now, and the
thought ought to have been comforting, but it wasn’t. The first six blows
were unbearable, but the next nine would be far worse if the headmaster’s
aim was true. The seventh showed he was implacable, landing on top of the
lowest of the strokes so far, just about on the crease of the buttocks as
they joined her thighs.
“Please,” she whimpered. “Oh, please, it really is too hard.”
“What is your judgement, Mr Parkinson? Are you minded to show mercy?”
“Certainly not,” Mr Parkinson replied. “If we let her off she’d
think I’m weak and take advantage.”
“Well, we can’t have that,” said the headmaster.
The eighth stroked lashed across the top of her buttocks. Lucy groaned, as
much in despair as in pain. Of course she could use the safe word. But she
knew Mr Parkinson would be ashamed of her. Things could never be the same
between them afterwards.
The ninth and tenth strokes fell in quick succession.
There was a pause. Just get it over with, Lucy thought, gritting her teeth.
Her body shook with sobs. She felt a hand smooth her burning skin.
“She’ll be well marked,” the headmaster said.
“Good,” said Mr Parkinson. “That will give her something to remember
us by.”
The cane whistled once more. The strokes were now falling for a third time
on the spots already welted by earlier blows. Twelve and thirteen followed.
And now at last a miraculous change had arrived. On Lucy’s buttocks acute
pain was being transformed into heat. The flesh that just a moment ago had
trembled in torment was now enveloped in a warm glow. Indeed, it was more
than warm; her buttocks burned with a delicious and intoxicating fire. The
next stroke of the cane stoked it still further. Yes, thought Lucy, yes, I
am purified in the flame. She longed for another stroke, arching her bottom
upwards to receive its fierce caress.
Only one more remained.
“This will be the hardest of all,” she heard the headmaster say.
“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, let it be.”
With all his might he brought the cane down full across the centre of her
lacerated flesh. Lucy shrieked in ecstatic agony, her body wracked by spasms
of mingled pain and pleasure. Mr Parkinson let her go. Lucy lay across the
table, breathing heavily.
“Say thank you,” he said to her.
She whispered her gratitude. She heard Mr Parkinson invite the headmaster to
use her as he wished. He came round and stood in front of her, unzipping
himself and taking out his cock. It was erect, long though more slender than
Mr Parkinson’s. He put it in her mouth and began to fuck her, holding her
head between his hands. Soon he spurted into her mouth, then withdrew. He
zipped himself up.
She heard Mr Parkinson accompany the headmaster to the door and bid
farewell. Lucy still lay on the table, dazed by her ordeal. She knew what
came next. Mr Parkinson stood behind her and, pulling her buttocks gently
apart, pushed his cock right up into her cunt. It didn’t take long. After
the beating, the sexual act was always perfunctory, almost an afterthought.
When he’d finished he said she might get up. He left the room and
returned, as always, with two glasses of wine. They drank them without
speaking, Lucy sitting at her desk, shifting uncomfortably on her sore
bottom, Mr Parkinson sitting at the table.
Lucy went to the bathroom, then she was ready to go.
“I was taken unawares,” she said. “But I enjoyed it. You may continue
to experiment.”
Back home, she took a bath, then lay on her bed and used her vibrator as she
relived the events of the evening. She slept soundly.
The next morning she looked at herself in her bathroom mirror. The bruises
were severe, the worst she had seen, purple and black against the white skin
of her buttocks. She touched them gingerly. She was still sore. It would be
fully a week before she’d let any of her lovers see her naked. None of
them knew of her secret life, and she was always careful to provide no
evidence.
At nine o’clock on the dot she strode across the marble floor towards the
elevator, her high heels clicking as she acknowledged the greetings of the
doorman and sundry secretaries. Walking into her office in her pencil-slim
grey skirt and tightly fitting matching jacket, she brusquely said good
morning to James, her new assistant. She sat at her desk, sifting through
her mail while he fetched her coffee.
“James,” she said.
“Yes, Miss Foxton?” he answered dutifully.
“I’ve observed you closely in your first two weeks. In general your work
is satisfactory. But there are one or two things you must improve on.”
“Yes, Miss Foxton,” he said. “Of course.”
She began to tell him what they were, shifting slightly in her chair so as
to feel her bruised bottom beneath her purple silk knickers.
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