Mrs. Bullock by
Darol N. F/m spanking
The young
Mr. Coleridge is a
bit of a wise-guy, until Mrs. Bullock decides to take charge.
Little does he know how exciting a good hard punishment can be,
especially in front of two sophomore girls...
Copyright (c) 2005, all rights reserved, not for sale
“Coleridge uses the word venerable in describing the
Ancient Mariner. What does that word mean Mr. Coleman?”
“Uh, I’m not sure.”
“You know what to do. So do it.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
I
left my desk/chair and walked up to the dictionary setting
on a pedestal at the front of the classroom, knowing the
meaning of venerable, but deciding I’d have a little
fun at Mrs. Bullock’s expense.
“Venerable.”
“Of, pertaining to, or associated with sexual desire or
intercourse (Of a disease, etc.).”
“Very clever. Once again, you’ve chosen to play the clown.
This is precisely the kind of behavior that has caused you
to repeat your senior year. This is precisely the kind of
behavior that is making a mockery of your parents and my
honoring their request to help you prepare successfully for
your college entrance exams. This is precisely the kind of
behavior I’m no longer willing to tolerate.”
I
could feel the frustration and disappointment in her voice.
She looked away and became very still. I began feeling a
little uneasy sensing that I had hurt her and wondering what
was going to happen. After what seemed like an eternity,
she turned back towards me and asked that I approach her
desk. I did so thinking she’d dismiss me. Maybe even write
a note to my parents letting them know she was terminating
our tutoring sessions, and giving up. OK by me.
“You’d like me to just quit wouldn’t you?” I remained
dumbly silent.
“Odd that your glib verbosity has deserted you, isn’t it?
Well, no matter this lesson is over.”
Eyes shining, her clipped English accent grown dusky, but
with emotions barely controlled, she said, “I’ve made the
mistake of waiting too long to take you to task. I had
thought that hints and encouragement would work. Since that
is not the case, I mean to make a lasting impression on you
by more direct means. You lack discipline, which is
something that comes from within, thus I’m under no illusion
that mere chastisement will correct your behavior. But I am
determined to remain your instructress and see this
through. If it’s any solace, shortly you’ll have earned the
distinction of being the first student whom I’ve spanked,”
she said.
“You’ll find a paddle hanging on the inside of the supplies
cabinet. Bring it to me this instant!”
I
stood shocked still. Not believing that this seemingly
tight laced English war bride would resort to corporal
punishment even if it was Texas in the late nineteen
fifties.
“Are you deaf, or do you mean to add disobedience to
impertinence?” I reacted immediately and took off for the
supply cabinet as she rose from her desk, key in hand,
heading for the room door.
I
reached the supply cabinet, but couldn’t resist turning to
watch her finely shaped legs, accentuated by high heels, and
the motions of her saucy ass and persuasive hips constrained
by a tight skirt. I retrieved “the board” hanging by a
leather thong from a hook inside the cabinet door. Rumor
had it that the shop teacher, smitten with Mrs. Bullock, had
made it especially for her. In any case it was
impressive. Twenty two inches long, three inches wide, and
about one-half inch thick. Hand- rubbed, lustrous,
honey-hued maple. The handle bound in soft red leather.
Mrs. B had returned to her desk where I surrendered the
paddle to her. She took it in her left hand, looked at it
reflectively, and tapped it against her right palm, wincing
slightly.
She
placed the paddle on the desktop, removed her jacket, draped it
carefully over the back of her desk chair, retrieved the cushion
from the chair, and handed it to me. “I want you to turn around
and bend over my desk. Then stretch out and hold on to the far
edge. Place the cushion under your pelvis. This will protect
your privates and help present your bottom properly.” I did as
she requested.
After a
brief pause, she asked that I stand back up and remove the
wallet and handkerchief from the back pockets of my cotton
chinos. I did so, somewhat apprehensively and slowly bent back
down over her desk.
Unexpectedly there was a timid knock at the classroom door,
which Mrs. Bullock walked to and opened.
A
girlish voice. “Oh, you’re busy, we can come back later.”
“Nonsense. Come in and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be
with you shortly. Furthermore what you’re about to witness may
prove instructive.”
The two
girls, Robin and Victoria, did as bid.
“Oh
God I know the dark haired, haughty one, Victoria, a sophomore.”
Last semester, after a football game, and at least one beer too
many, not wanting to acknowledge her attractiveness to me, and
to impress my buds, I had dissed her at the local drive-in. Now
she was going to witness Mrs. B dissing me big time.
As the
two girls sat demurely, Mrs. Bullock came back to me. I was
still stretched across her desk.
“Turn
your face towards me. I want to be sure you understand the
instructions I’m about to impart to you. Fine. Again, I know
that external punishment of the sort I’m about to apply to your
backside is not the same as self-discipline. Nonetheless I’m
requiring that you submit to the following rules. I will ask
you to call for the paddle. You will do so by stating, ‘May
I please have the first lick, Mrs. Bullock?’ It is
important that you keep an accurate tally. Failure to do so
will result in the lick not counting and thus being repeated.
You must remain in place. Again failure to do so will add a
lick, and a repeat violation means we start all over. I will
respond to your call by answering ‘Present yourself’ which you
will do by raising up on your toes, and arching your back so as
to present your buttocks properly for my paddle. Your
chastisement will cease when ten licks, plus any penalties, have
been applied. After which you will stand up, face me, and
apologize for your behavior. Further we will shake hands, and
you will thank me for spanking you. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,
Mrs. Bullock.”
“Very
well, you may turn your face towards the window,” she said,
while rolling up the left sleeve of her blouse.
I did
so, but then she asked me to “Stand back up please.”
I did,
and she tugged my pants up by the belt thus tightening the fit
of the thin cotton material over my butt cheeks.
I lay
back down, heard her remove her pumps, and pick up the paddle.
It
seemed like an eternity before she asked me to call for the
first lick during which time I reasoned that my imminent
paddling was nothing to worry about. After all, she was just a
young woman and couldn’t hit as hard as the male teachers. And,
as a woman, she undoubtedly had a soft heart so would not use
all her might in swinging the paddle. My only real concern was
not to wimp out before Victoria and Robin
Mrs.
Bullock then tapped my butt with the paddle a few times, as
though judging the resilience of her target and finding its
range. She asked me to call for the paddle. I did so and came
up on my toes. Man, my attitude sure did a one-eighty at the
sound and impact of that first lick! The spreading, stinging
pain was like nothing I had experienced before. All the air was
expelled from my lungs. I sucked back in deeply, and
reflexively began to stand up, but caught myself as her steely
voice advised me not to do so. She waited patiently while the
pain built to a crescendo and subsided to a dull throb. She
again announced, “Call for the paddle, Mr. Coleman.”
I
turned my face toward her and uttered, “May I please have the
second lick, Mrs. Bullock?”
“Present yourself,” she said”
She
continued to apply the paddle vigorously being careful to place
each succeeding swat in a slightly different place thus
preventing any area of my butt from numbing out. And so things
went for the first six, blasting licks.
I was
in a state of total amazement and awe as much from the
realization that a woman was so effectively blistering my
backside as from the blistering itself. I looked back at her.
Saw focused, yet warmly glistening eyes. Her pearl neck
pendant and earrings were elegant, feminine. A bead of sweat
had formed on her upper lip attesting to the effort she was, I
am convinced, making on my behalf.
For the
seventh lick, I continued watching as she raised the board
slowly over her shoulder and brought it down through a perfect
arc, the face of the paddle glistening, changing attitude,
accelerating as it progressed toward its destination. Her hips
rotated as her swing completed its follow through. Just like a
professional golfer swinging a woodie, or tennis player
returning a ground stroke. She struck the underside of my butt
lifting me up almost off my toes and driving my pelvis forward.
I seemed to experience this in slow motion seeing every instant
as a separate, but connected step in an unfolding process.
Later on I would think of it as a sort of real time expression
of Marcel Duchamp’s revolutionary painting, “Nude Descending A
Staircase.” I was ready to burst into tears, but held back not
wanting to further embarrass myself in front of the two
sophomores who were probably silently laughing their cute little
asses off let alone getting hot watching my wriggling rear being
brazed.
“Mr.
Coleman stop that wriggling of your bottom this instant!”
“I’m
sorry Mrs. Bullock, but I can’t control myself.”
“Not
surprising and all the more reason to do so. I’ll not trouble
you to call for the last three licks. Perhaps that will aid
your concentration.”
I don’t
really remember the last three licks. Bending close to my right
ear, she said in a throaty whisper, “Mr. Coleman, you may
arise.” I was aware of her perfume, an aroma like flowering
desert sage after a rainstorm. “We are finished for the
present.” Before I stood up she trailed the fingers of her left
hand down the split between my buttocks, lightly grazing my
anus. The effect was electric. I felt a frisson of energy all
up and down my spine, through my rectum to my testicles, and
from them to my penis, which began to swell.
We
faced each other. Her face displayed a quizzical, slightly
mocking expression, left eyebrow slightly raised. Her white
teeth showed through her red, slightly parted lips Her breasts
heaved rhythmically. I was entranced. “Stop that rubbing of
your bottom. Cease stamping your feet, and place your hands at
your side!” she commanded. Reluctantly, I did so.
In a
slightly bemused tone, she said, “Well, sir, what do you think
of my paddle? Not pleasant, is it? Perhaps you now understand
the pain and frustration I feel when you act the fool. What do
you have to say for yourself? Do you think our session here
today will help you behave properly and perform to your
capabilities in future?”
Voice
strengthening, I replied, “Yes, Mrs. Bullock, it sure will.”
“I hope
so because I am prepared to continue a regime of constant
paddling if you fail to do otherwise. Should that not suffice
I’ll get you mother’s permission to continue our lessons at my
house where every time you fail to come up to mark you’ll find
yourself bound to a bench bared for the strap and cane. Lest
you think this unreasonable just consider the lifelong sting
of
disappoint and self recrimination you will experience should you
not get hold of yourself and exhibit more self control over your
impulses. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes,
Ma’am, I do. “May I go to the restroom Mrs. Bullock?”
“We’re
forgetting something, are we not?” she said.
I
stared back dumbly.
“We’ve
yet to shake hands, and you have not thanked me for paddling
you, or apologized for your behavior.”
She
held on to my extended hand briefly as it made contact with her
own so soft and long fingered. I apologized and thanked her
sincerely. A loving energy seemed to flow from her eyes to
mine. I was aware of a bulge in the front of my pants and
hoped, (or did I?) she hadn’t noticed.
“Excellent. Now apologize to Victoria and Robin for having to
witness this embarrassing spectacle, then return my paddle to
the cabinet, and you may go to the loo.”
“Apologize
to these silly, sophomore girls. Oh, this is too much” I
thought, but my grindingly aching butt convinced me to comply.
As I apologized, the girls were doing their best to remain
solemn, but I could tell they were close to a teasing, giggling
fit.
“Good
boy. Please return when you’re finished, and we’ll briefly
discuss my expectations of you respecting your next assignment.”
Slipping the leather thong from her wrist, she handed me the
paddle, which I reinstalled in the supply cabinet.
I
retrieved my wallet and hanky, and put them back into my rear
pants pockets.
The
halls were empty and still except for the custodians making
their rounds. I reached the boys restroom and entered. As I
hoped, it was empty. Immediately, I walked over to one of the
mirror topped sinks, unbuckled my belt, unzipped my fly, and
lowered my pants and briefs to the tops of my thighs. Turning
away from the sink, I looked back over my shoulder into the
mirror. My sore and swollen ass was a sight for sore eyes; a
rich incarnadine from the underside of my rear to just below my
waste. Blossoming on each ass cheek was a medallion size
bruise/blister, bluish purple in the center, and skirted with a
yellow cream corona. Thin, dark red lines were evident where
the edge of the paddle had turned in. “Lordy, lordy,” I
mused, “that young woman sure doesn’t do things half
ass. Very impressive for someone new to paddling.” I
tenderly rubbed each cheek, but not for long as I was afraid of
being caught in such a state, and my straining penis and aching
testicles were crying for relief.
Dispensing a glob of soap into my right palm I waddled over to
one of the commode stalls, opened the door and entered. No
sooner than doing so, I grabbed my penis, its head purple,
swollen, and polished, pearls of pre-cum forming at its tip, and
began pumping desperately needing to ejaculate ASAP.
Surprisingly, I let go of my throbbing organ leaving it to sway
cobra like before me.
It was
Mrs. Bullock! In my mind I could hear her voice. “Mr. Coleman
I’m not a prude and fully understand the need for a young man to
masturbate especially under these circumstances. But once again
you are denying yourself the satisfaction of doing the job
right. Suspend your rush to climax and you’ll find that when
your crisis does arrive it will be far more pleasurable than any
you’ve experienced so far. Additionally, you’ll learn a
discipline and skill that women will come to treasure.”
I
returned to my task imagining Mrs. B’s fingers lightly teasing
my straining cock. As tension built my mind’s eye pictured her,
stripped from the waste up, nipples swollen, rattan raised over
her shoulder, me bound to a leather cushioned bench. She begins
flogging me gradually picking up the pace to which my stroking
increases in strength and tempo. Suddenly a series of seismic
orgasms ensued accompanied by gushes of spurting, spewing,
spraying sperm. Vibrations spread along my shoulder blades and
to my elbows. I kept pumping through the painful, but
pleasurable “ordeal.” Panting for breath, my legs buckled, and
I almost fainted. Eventually I regained clarity, ordered my
dress, exited the stall, walked to the sink, and splashed water
on my face.
When I
returned to the classroom the girls had left and Mrs. Bullock
was filling a canvas sack with papers to grade over the
weekend. She gave me my assignment and we bid adieu.
Shortly
later I saw her leave school and walk to the curb where a cool
Chevy convertible awaited, top down. A crew cut, athletic
looking man jumped up from the driver’s seat, and went round to
open the passenger door. They kissed briefly as she tossed her
canvas sack jauntily into the back seat. To this day I swear I
saw a red leather handle protruding from the top of her tote.
I’ve wondered time and again how she and her “beau” (husband)
spent that weekend having little doubt who was on the receiving
end of the “maple marauder”.
***
Retired
now. Three score and four years of age. Trim, fit, and in
excellent health. Financially secure. For over an hour I’ve
been stretched tautly, secured tightly by wrists and ankles to
the head and foot of a brass bed; a bolster under my hips. I’m
wearing Lycra spandex pants rolled down to mid thigh, and a
jersey of the same shiny material. Waiting. Anticipating.
My wife warned me to be sure to pay the credit card balance in
time so as not to incur an interest penalty. The first two
times she called the credit card company and coaxed them to
forgo the interest. But they refused the third time so I must
now pay an altogether more painful “interest penalty” for my
carelessness. Some things seem never to change.
The
windows and balcony door to the “top of the tower room” are
open. I can hear birds twittering and smell the newly harvested
alfalfa fields. It’s an early fall late afternoon and the
sunlight softly caresses the countryside. I also hear her
ascending the stairs to this chamber not knowing if this time
she’ll enter. Trying not to, I nevertheless peer occasionally
at her favorite implement the one used for “exemplary
chastisements,” resting on top of the small dresser.
I
remember back…
“Randy
Coleman. Oh my gosh, I don’t believe it! After all these
years.”
“Vicky,
or should I say Victoria McMasters, is that you?”
“The
one and only. “What brings you to this convention? Are you
also in biochemical research?”
“Not
quite, I work for a company specializing in PC-based statistical
analysis software. And I’m hoping to make some contacts, and
eventually sell some software.”
“That’s
wonderful. And after all the mischief you always managed to get
into back in high school.”
“Yeah,
I guess I’ve learned a few lessons along the way. Say, why
don’t we share war stories over drinks and dinner this evening?”
“That
would be nice. I’m in room 269. Call for me about seven.”
“Deal.”
And so
we met again. Corresponded in the following months. Got
together, via the “friendly skies” half dozen times or so, and
eventually married. Growing weary of the grind, and having been
lucky with our investments we retired in our early fifties to a
farm outside a medium size, Midwestern town. A town with a fine
community theater in which my wife actively participates. We
leased almost all the acreage to a nearby farmer, and put in a
few years of sweat equity restoring the large, old, brick farm
house. We later learned that the place was called Tower Farm
due to the four story tower at the northwest corner of the
house, the top two stories of which stood free of the rest of
the house, with windows all around, and topped with a conical
slate roof that resembles a church bell tower, or a witch’s cap
as I sometimes think ruefully. A small balcony with a wrought
iron rail opens off the top tower room. Apparently the original
owner was an amateur astronomer.
Finally
the door lock clicks open. Dressed in everyday garb she enters
barefoot, composed, She glides serenely to the small dresser,
opens the top drawer, and extracts a kid leather glove, which is
fitted to her left hand and tugged down tight, between her
fingers. Picking up the implement she draws it through her
gloved hand and flexes it, testing its temper prior to its
testing mine. Satisfied she slips the loop at the handle over
her wrist and approaches the bed.
… We
had been motoring at a leisurely pace through Great Britain.
Staying in B&B’s, roaming historic sites, and poking around in
interesting shops. We discovered what she later came to refer
as her “Little Tickler” in a York antique shop. She had come
round the corner of one of the shop’s aisles and caught me
examining it. “I see you’ve found something of interest,” she
said coyly.
“Obviously Madam is discriminating,” the obsequious shop owner
said. “Waxed braided leather encasing a whalebone shaft. And
the handle is genuine ivory scrimshaw. Late Victorian vintage.
You’ll not find another like it. From a distinguished estate
I’m told. One known for breading and training horses for
dressage. You’ll note the representations on either side of the
handle.”
We
had. On one side an elegant lady in smart riding habit atop a
thoroughbred stallion her hands on the pommel gripping a short
riding whip, and on the other side a similar whip being applied
to the naked behind of a squalling youngster.
Looking
at me, but addressing Vickie, he asked if Madam was a collector
and to what purpose the switch would be put.
She
instantly shot back, “That, sir, is none of your business.”
Upon
returning to our room I gulped and blushed when she asked “You’d
like a little taste wouldn’t you dear? Which scene should we
play out? Me lady jockey you ponyboy? Or me governess you my
naughty young charge?” We decided to play it safe and a light
whipping, short of eliciting strong exclamations on my part,
ensued. Thereafter, the switch was used not for erotic
foreplay, but strictly to address my most egregious lapses in
behavior, Victoria rightly thinking that the best things should
not lose their allure through overuse…
She’s
trailing the loose tips at the business end of the switch along
the crack of my ass. Teasing. Increasing tension. Finally the
premonitory, swishing hiss. My trial by fire begins.
“I wish
you could see your face. Priceless --- that look of perplexed
incredulity. Trying to puzzle out how you’ve wound up in such a
fix; as though experiencing the effects of my switch for the
first time. It’s all I can do to keep from laughing out loud.
Maybe I’ll have to place a mask over your eyes in the future”
she’ll say next morning at breakfast.
I keep
still and remain quiet as long as I can bear to, but eventually
will commence bucking against the constraints, and moaning and
crying out, imploring surcease. I should know better by now,
but my entreaties will only prompt a redoubling of effort on her
part.
Sooner
or later, but not soon enough for me, she will lay the switch
down and exit the room leaving me in an agitated state not
knowing what will transpire when she returns. Maybe she’ll have
taken a shower and changed into something comfortable before
returning with a towel soaking in a basin filled with cold
water. She’ll lay the wet towel across my tender flesh. Maybe
she’ll resume my punishment using the switch to “dot I’s and
cross T’s” as she puts it, or apply her wicked, wood handled,
split tongued leather strap to “paint in the bare spots.” Maybe
both, strap first, or switch first. It amuses her at times to
practice what she calls “precision parallel placement” of the
leather switch the resulting stripes rendering wide wale
corduroy my upper thighs and backside.
That
she carries out her duty with devotional ardor is beyond
question. I’m not conventionally religious, but at times I feel
as though she’s led me through purgatorial fires from which I
emerge purified, freshly blossomed having experienced time out
of time as do mystics in a state of ecstatic union with a god,
or goddess. Mrs. Bullock, wherever she may be no doubt knows
and approves of how things have turned out in my life, and is
proud of her role in its shaping.
The
days that follow will be calm and sweet. Though sore for a
while I’ll be clear headed, bright eyed, walking tall. Victoria
will be tender and loving. The storm will have passed. We’ll
play spanking scene roles in which she sometimes is on the
receiving end. And the rest of our domestic routines will be
attended to until I need reminding, once again, of failing in
duties and responsibilities to myself and Victoria.
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