Part 3 - Deborah's Story

Part 3 - Deborah's Story - The Lady in Surbiton

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This work is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It may contain depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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Deborah’s story –

The Lady in Surbiton

All young girls are vain enough to spend time looking in a mirror wondering if they are sexy enough. At around age fifteen, sometimes earlier or if they are particularly vain, they will spend an inordinate amount of time looking in a mirror. They will look at their hair, their lips and their eyes wondering if they are the right shape, style or colour. What they see will never match their ideal so they will spend even longer with brushes, pencils, fingers and paint trying to achieve, what for them is the optimum shape, style and colour. Then they will turn their attention to the full-length mirror and examine their figures. The most recent feature to have appeared will be their breasts so, quite naturally, that is where their attention will be focused.

Whenever I looked in the mirror at that age I was always very disappointed. My breasts were either taking a long time to appear or were not going to arrive at all. Most of the girls in my class at school wore a bra, some of them had since they were thirteen; not me. Oh yes there would be times, if I was going on a date for instance, when I would wear a bra and try to get away with stuffing a pair of tights into the cups, but it was never convincing and I was always petrified that I would be found out.

My bottom, on the other hand, I was proud of and had been ever since I had taken notice of such things. Whereas my girl friends, before going out of an evening, would spend ages preening in the mirror at their

fronts, tweaking at their seams or pulling here and tucking there to make things look right without more than only a cursory glance at their rear end to make sure that their bums didn’t look big, would set off feeling totally confident and convinced that they looked amazing. My ritual before going out would involve two mirrors and plenty of looking over my shoulder.

I liked my bum; it was by far my best feature, it was my only feature that looked good, so I did my absolute best to make the most of it. My jeans were always nice and tight, my shorts were as short as could be and I made sure that if boys looked at my friend’s tits then they would certainly pay good regard to my bum. I even took up ice skating; not because I liked ice, I couldn’t bare the cold, or even because I was particularly graceful; I just wanted to glide around gracefully in a short skirt with my bum sticking out.

Although I have an attractive rear end, at least I think so; I have no idea how I came to realise it; after all none of the teenage magazines ever mention what the perfect bum should look like. There is always plenty of information about busts and getting the right size bra to fit, but none of those glossy monthlies ever give any indication of what size or shape a bottom should be. Girls at that age need re-assurance but, as far as a shapely bottom is concerned, where does it come from? We are used to looking at people from the front; magazine photographs are always shot from the front of the models, I was certainly not going to go around examining girl’s rear ends, but I wanted to know what a nice bottom was supposed to look like.

So I sought my re-assurance from the Internet; tentatively at first I must admit.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I first entered girl’s bottoms into the search engine; but I soon found out and closed it down quickly enough I can tell you. Page upon page with images of bare bottoms of all shapes and sizes were presented to me; anyone would think that the Internet was only for browsing porn. But then I became intrigued; if there is an interest in such things, what exactly is the interest about? How does my bum match up to these others?

So, spurred on by my fascination, I began browsing. I checked out the pages with all the images, followed the links, bookmarked the sites and settled down for some further investigation. What I discovered was that not only is the subject of young girl’s bottoms popular; the subject of spanking young girl’s bottoms is even more popular. I considered myself fairly knowledgeable about sex; technically I was still a virgin, but I had dated quite a few boys and done everything up to actually having sex. I had never thought about anything like spanking before though. Having your bottom spanked must hurt I thought, yet most of the models in the websites seemed to be enjoying it? You would see the same faces again and again and no one appeared to be under any duress or being exploited in any way. So, it must be trick photography I reasoned and the marks on their bottoms done with makeup? Then I discovered the short video clips that you can download and I viewed those, I realised then that the scenes were real. The girls really were getting their bottoms smacked hard with hands and hairbrushes; what was more they were not resisting. Sure they were acting up, but they were going along quite willingly with whatever the scene required.

This puzzled me, but at the same time, it intrigued me.

When I had been very young my grandfather had often told me the story of when he had been packed off to his aunt’s house during the First World War and how he had been mistreated there by all the women in the house. At the time of him telling me this story I remembered feeling so overwhelmingly sorry for him but yet intrigued at how it must have been for him to have lived through a horrific situation like that. But would anyone willingly, or even joyfully, have their bottom smacked? Would they do it just for the money, surely not? I could understand it if the money was so good that, if you were getting married or buying a car, or putting a deposit on a house or something, it might be worthwhile doing just the once; but the same girls were appearing in the videos time and time again. Most of them were educated and well spoken as well. They were not the kind of girls that you would expect came from deprived or abusive backgrounds and had fallen into a seedy world of pornography and prostitution through no fault of their own, something had drawn them to it. What was it I wondered? What was it about baring your bottom and having it spanked that I was missing? I had to find out.
Further trawling brought further insights. Not least of which was the fact that, with all my viewing of naked posteriors up ended over laps and desks, I was becoming turned on by it. I just started wondering what it would be like to be so vulnerable and to have someone intentionally hurting you in that way. It was such an intimate act but not in any sexual way. It was a game of two people certainly, nudity, submission and intimacy were all present; and the victim would have to give themselves up totally, just like with sex; but the partner would not be intending to bestow love and pleasure, they would be punishing you instead. It was that bizarre contradiction to the norm that I found both intriguing and exciting.

So one Saturday afternoon, when my folks were out, I thought I would have a go at spanking myself, just to see what it was like. Doing it over my jeans hurt my hand more than it hurt my bottom. With my jeans down and spanking over my panties it hurt some more, or at least my bottom stung a bit after a few whacks and my hand did not; but I got the feeling that I was just not doing it hard enough. I tried it with one of my slippers, a leather mule with a thin sole, and even one of my trainers. The mule was not heavy enough but, with the trainer I felt that I was getting somewhere close to what I thought a spanking would feel like; after quite a few spanks to each cheek my bottom was warm and pink all over and I was becoming a bit turned on. I was also becoming more intrigued and decided that what I needed was to get someone else to do it for me.

I couldn’t approach any of my girl friends, they would think me insane, and I was not dating a boy seriously enough to be that intimate; besides they would get the wrong idea they always did; but I really wanted to take this experiment further. I needed a total stranger, someone who did not know me to spank me. It did not matter that I would never see them again, in fact that was preferable; but where did you find such a person? I went back to the Internet.

I was very cautious at first and, I must admit, a bit scared. I wasn’t too sure how to approach this so I brought up the search engine again and just typed in, “someone to spank my bottom” to see what would come up. There were thousands of pages of replies; I would have to narrow down my search. So I thought about what I really wanted. I would not want to travel too far so I put in “south east England” where I lived. Also I would not want an old man, or any man for that matter, so put in “lady”. I had no money so could not pay; I supposed there were those that charged for such a service, so I put in “no charge”. Also I thought, that in which case, I had better point out that I was a young girl. So my final search parameters were: “lady in south east England required to spank my young girl’s bottom, without charge”.

I still had loads of returns mostly with links to forums and chat rooms; but the search offered many professional disciplinarians, I was amazed at just how many there were in S.E. England. Some of my criteria, like “lady” or “without charge”, were ignored so I discounted those that were in London as those would certainly be professional services. I found a lady in Croydon that called herself an Aunty, well that was better than Madame or Mistress at least; a lady in Reading that claimed to respect all limits and another in Surbiton who was either just starting out or that was so discreet that her website just gave her name (a pseudonym I supposed), an email address and the words Disciplinary services of all kinds. They all gave an email address so I decided that I would contact those three ladies to start with and explain what I wanted.

The lady in Surbiton replied straight away.

She explained that she offered her services to men and women alike and that she understood perfectly why I would want to experiment in this way. Normally she expected a tribute (her word for a charge) but that, if I wanted I could visit her for a chat, a bit like a councillor I supposed, and take it further if I wanted. My age was never asked or mentioned which I thought a bit strange but it suited me as, otherwise, she might not want to deal with someone so young. Surbiton was close enough for me so we arranged a convenient time.

On the day of my visit I paid particular attention to the way I looked. I wanted to impress this lady as I did not want her to dismiss me as just a silly girl. I needed to look old enough without losing my innocence. I settled for the sort of attire that I might wear to an interview: a dark grey suit with a tight pencil slim skirt and a short waisted jacket over a cream silk shirt and pantyhose. My shoes were black high-heeled to give me a few more inches, they were the only smart shoes I had apart from my school shoes. I also wore makeup and a bit of perfume.

Her house was a modest Edwardian end-of-terrace in one of the smarter areas of Surbiton. I almost got cold feet while standing outside her door, but nothing ventured, nothing gained I thought and besides, I could just walk away; but I had come this far so I tentatively rang the bell. The door was answered by a slim, nice looking, sweet, middle aged lady that could have been my mother. She asked me into her lounge, a very comfortable furnished room with French doors into a small but nicely tended garden.

“You’re a little younger than I expected” she started with, “most of the ladies I deal with have, shall we say, been around a little longer than you have.”

She was obviously used to being discreet and chose her words carefully.

“I am not going to ask you how old you are because, quite honestly my dear, it is immaterial; but you must know that I administer corporal punishment here. Have you even had any experience of corporal punishment ever? Have your parents, or your school for that matter, ever had the need to discipline you?”

I was now quite nervous about having to talk openly to this perfect stranger about things that seemed quite private, but managed to croak out a “No.”

“Well then” she continued, trying to put me at ease “why don’t you tell me what caused you to seek me out and contact me as you did?”

So I told her about my fascination for bottoms and how the Internet had led me, first to pictures of girls being spanked, and then, after I had tried it myself, looking for someone to do it for me.

She told me to stand up and then to turn around. Then she asked me to remove my jacket and stand side on to her while she scrutinised my figure. She admired my bottom and told me how nicely rounded and firm it was. It was the perfect bottom for spanking she said.

Then she talked about corporal punishment in general and how people used it for many reasons; to get relief from feelings of guilt, to stimulate their blood circulation, to help relaxation or even to be sexually stimulated; she assumed that I fell into the last category. It was unusual for someone of my age she said, but it was nothing to be ashamed of and quite natural that I should want to experiment in that way. The more she talked the more re-assured I felt and that I was not some freak or pervert. Then she asked me if I would be willing to allow her to spank me a little. Not too hard she said, but just enough to give me a better understanding of what the sensation was all about. I was a bit apprehensive but that was, after all, why I was there, so I agreed.

I was to take off my jacket but leave my skirt on; then I got across her lap. Immediately that I was draped across her I got a feeling of vulnerability and felt excited by it. She began spanking me very lightly at first but increased the strength and the speed as it progressed. My bottom became warm and then hot. It felt strange to be up-ended with my nose so close to the carpet having my bottom spanked just like a naughty little girl; but I enjoyed the feeling of having so much attention paid to my bottom and found it sexually stimulating. After a while though she stopped and asked me what I thought of it so far. I wanted more.

She suggested that we do it without my skirt. I found that I could hardly wait to get my skirt off and fumbled with the zipper. I decided to take my pantyhose off as well. I was then standing before this total stranger in just a thin pair of cotton briefs anxious for her to get going on my backside again. I got down over her lap. With just the thin protection from my panties the spanks stung quite a lot more, but not so much that I could not take it. The warm feeling in my bottom built up and up until, after a while, it started to burn and eventually I just could not take any more. She stopped when I asked her to, thankfully, but I realised then what it must be like to be punished and be completely at the mercy of the spanker.

My bottom felt tender and in need of a jolly good rubbing so I stood there moving from leg to leg vigorously rubbing at each cheek. I did not want to get dressed straight away; I was now feeling quite sexy and it felt so daring to be in this strange house with an older lady that I had only just met, in a state of semi-undress. She told me that my bottom was now very red and fetched a hand mirror so that I could look. I pulled my knickers into my crack and stared at my bare bottom. It looked incredibly sore and red and, as I examined every detail I could feel waves of sexuality rippling through my body. I really wanted to touch myself down below but felt too embarrassed to go that far.

She told me it was all to do with chemicals called endorphins that the body generated at moments of stress to enable one to come to terms with it. These chemicals, she said, affected the heart rate and breathing and sent stimulants to the brain. These were the same stimulants produced in preparation to having sex and that was why people enjoyed it. She then suggested that, if I was really curious about being spanked, I should feel the effect of the flat back of a hairbrush on my bare bottom taken just a bit beyond my comfort zone. I was not sure I wanted to go that far but she assured me that she would not hurt me too much, well within the capabilities of a young girl at least, and that I might enjoy it even more. I would certainly be able to find out whether or not it was something I wanted to pursue further.

So down and over I went again feeling even more vulnerable awaiting the hairbrush. She slowly pulled my panties right off, further increasing my feelings of sexuality, and then picked up the brush. I will never forget the appalling sting from that first whack with the hairbrush. I almost jumped off her lap there and then; I was so indignant that I had been hurt in such a way. I let out a yowl and wriggled my legs in an effort to absorb the pain. Then another came down on the other side and I kicked out even more. I did not think I was going to be able to take many of these. After a while though, don’t get me wrong the pain was still excruciating; I found I was able to enjoy the warm feeling that filled my entire body and I realised that I was looking forward to each spank. They came regularly and rhythmically, each one sending white hot pain to my cheeks and ripples of shock down my legs; but the accompanying feeling was one of shear abandoned lust. I could not get enough and wanted the spanks to get harder and faster. Oh I hope she does not stop, I found myself thinking, not just yet. I had no idea how many whacks I had endured; ten, twenty, fifty, it could have even been one hundred for all I knew, but I knew that I was in a state of absolute bliss.

“I think I had better stop now my dear” she said, “or I fear I might bruise this lovely young bottom of yours.”

“Oh please no, not just yet, just a few more please,” I found myself saying.

“Alright then, I’m just going to give you a few more really hard and fast, and then we must call it a day.”

With that she began to lay into me again with the hairbrush. She was true to her word for they came very fast and each one hurt a lot more than before. I felt myself wriggling in desperation and yelling out loud; but I was still very disappointed when she finally stopped.

When I got up and pulled my panties back on I noticed that, as well as having a scorching hot bottom, I was tingling between my legs and very wet down there. I would have done anything right then to have been able to stroke myself to orgasm. I was tempted to ask to use the bathroom, but really I knew that I wanted to take my time and enjoy it to the full.

We chatted for a bit longer; I found myself telling this perfect stranger how sexy I felt and she quite understood and suggested ways that I might satisfy my urges more totally in future.

“Let me give you something. A present if you like my dear”.

She got up and went to a cupboard and took out a little paddle and handed it to me. It was a bit like a riding crop except it was made of fibreglass she said and had a piece of plastic at one end shaped like a hand. She suggested that the best way to use it on myself, I sensed that she was speaking from experience, was to lie on my back and bring my legs back over my head, as if I was having a nappy changed. It was best if there was a wall behind that I could rest my feet against. Then I could whip the hand shaped plastic end easily onto each cheek using either arm. I was very grateful and determined that I would do just that as soon as I got home. She told me that I might visit her whenever I felt the need, but that the next time I would be expected to offer a tribute. I left but did not really expect that I would need to go there ever again, especially if I would have to pay the next time.

There was nobody home when I got there and I was still feeling incredibly sexy so decided that I would try out the paddle there and then. I wanted to see the state of my bottom anyway so could hardly wait to get my clothes off. When I eased my panties off in front of the mirror and looked back at my bottom it was still bright scarlet It had been a half hour or so since I had got up from the Surbiton lady’s lap and I assumed that my bottom had been a lot redder then. I must have stood at the mirror for ages admiring my rosy cheeks and the job she had done; the colour was very even all over and the cheeks also looked a bit swollen.

I wanted desperately to re-live that feeling after my spanking again so I got down on my back on the floor and, with my legs over my head and using the little paddle, began slapping at my bare cheeks very fast and as hard as I could. The sensation was instantaneous and soon my bottom was on fire and, even though I could not stand it and had to keep urging myself on and on, I was so desperate that I made myself cry with the pain. One hand was going at it with the paddle while the other was between my legs pumping away. Then I would change over and reverse the action to the other cheek. I had one climax after the other but just kept going and going I could not get enough. It was fantastic and I would bet that none of my girl friends at school would have ever discovered this way to achieve multiple orgasms.

My good sense eventually got the better of me though and I decided that enough was enough. I was in an acute state of shock I realised and was shaking all over. My bottom hurt like fury and I could hardly stand up my buttocks felt so tight. When I went to the mirror I got the shock of my life; the entire region where my lovely cheeks had been, from my waist down to mid-thigh, was blotchy skin with black and blue bruises all over; it was horrible. I certainly could not let anybody see this I thought, and what would I do after gym at school when all the girls generally shower naked? I knew that some girls skipped the shower and others kept their panties on if they had a period, I would just have to do the same except with a pair of exceedingly big panties and hope that the bruises went down quickly; but I would certainly have to be more careful next time.

Well, I survived the showers at school without being discovered; hot baths and Arnica brought the bruises out in just a few days, and I continued to indulge in self-spanking on a regular basis. After a few months of weekly sessions I was totally hooked. I got myself a flat backed hairbrush but it was not robust enough and broke the first time I used it; I needed to get a stout wooden one like the lady in Surbiton but they were quite expensive. The little plastic paddle remained my favourite implement although I did try other things. I noticed that I was seeing normal everyday objects in a different way and I tried wooden spoons, spatulas and other kitchen tools. I even stole a proper riding crop off a friend; I could not resist taking it when I saw it lying on her hall stand, (I punished myself very severely for that misdeed I can tell you) but I sneaked it back after I had used it a few times and I’ll bet she never realised it had been missing.

I continued to browse the Internet using spanking as a subject, I suppose that I was hooked on that as well, and began viewing websites like Girls Boarding School and Lupus to admire the girls that were getting span ked and thrashed with canes so hard and with so many strokes that they bled. I certainly had no intention of going that far but the thought of a caning became a fascination for me and it was constantly at the forefront of my fantasies.

I decided to make a concentrated effort to find out more about canes and caning. Garden canes are made of bamboo and are not flexible enough to give a good thrashing; I soon found that out by experimentation. I needed to acquire a proper crook handled school cane. I found plenty of places on the Internet where I might source one; but I would never be able to have it delivered to the house, my mum and dad are always so curios about the things I buy and what would they think if a package like that arrived? I decided to approach my lady in Surbiton again; I thought that she might have one that I could borrow.

It had been almost one year since I had last been in touch with her, but she still remembered me. I told her that I was interested in being caned and, I was going to ask her if she had one that I might use but before I got a chance, she told me that she especially liked caning naughty schoolgirls but seldom had the opportunity to deal with the genuine article. So she made me a proposition; if I was prepared to come as a schoolgirl in proper school uniform as though I was being sent to the headmistress, she would deal with me without charge. I would have to accept her authority outright though, there would be no backing out once I got there and I would have to take whatever punishment she deemed necessary without question.

My first reaction was reluctance, all I really wanted was to borrow a cane so that I could do it myself, but then I found myself getting excited as I imagined what the visit would entail. I imagined myself nervously arriving at her door and having to submit to whatever she demanded; the baring of my bottom, the bending over and the viscous strokes that she would give. I imagined what the sting to my bottom of a well laid on cane from someone that knew what she was doing might feel like; I agreed and we arranged an appointment for one week’s time.

I have to admit that, all week, I was feeling more and more anxious of what was to come and was masturbating like fury at the thought. I kept going back to a webpage where people described what it was like to be caned. They all talked about red hot strokes of searing pain, jumping up as the strokes landed, rubbing their bottoms desperately trying to make the pain go away. I re-visited Lupus time after time again to watch the expressions of pain on the girl’s faces as the strokes landed and the more I viewed the more excited I became. My orgasms were phenomenal and I was in a state of permanent sexuality. The week passed far too quickly.

I had been right when I had imagined what it would feel like standing on the doorstep of the house in Surbiton waiting to be let in. I was a mixture of emotions as I stood there in my short tartan school kilt, bare legs with white socks, white blouse and tie and wearing a boater and dark blazer; I was nervous of what was beyond the door and yet anxious to experience it.

She was very cheery as she opened the door, she told me how lovely I looked and what a perfect schoolgirl I made. I sensed that she was as anxious as I was to get going because she skipped the preparatory small talk and went straight to the outline of a scenario so that we could both get into character straight away.

Upstairs in her house was a room furnished like a school room; I had not seen it the last time I was there but she described it for me. It was the first door on the right at the top of the stairs and, after allowing her a few minutes to prepare, I was to ascend the stairs and knock on the door and wait to be let in.

I wondered if I had allowed enough time as I nervously took the stairs one anxious step at a time. The door was heavy oak stained a dark brown colour, it looked out of place on the landing there but it was just how you would imagine a schoolroom door to be. I knocked and waited. After some minutes that, because I was so nervous, seemed like ages I heard a crisp authoritative voice, nothing like the natural sweet voice that I was used to, say “enter” and I went in.

As I stepped through the door I went back in time to the nineteen fifties, to a room that could have been straight out of a small private school. There was the blackboard and easel with algebraic equations written in white chalk. There was the pair of wooden desks with inkwells, sloping lids and hard bench seats attached. There were the bare floor boards and the coke stove in the corner and there, behind a desk mounted on a platform, was the headmistress fully attired in a black gown and mortar board. She did not look up but continued to write in a ledger as I stood there. I stood there for quite a while and began wondering if she had not noticed me entering so quietly, so I coughed to get her attention.

“Don’t be so cheeky”, was all she said and carried on writing. “Stand there and wait, I will deal with you in a moment”. Not once did she look up.

Did she know what I was feeling I wondered as I stood there? Probably, and was doing this on purpose. I felt just like a naughty schoolgirl awaiting punishment. My palms were sticky, there were butterflies fluttering away in my stomach. My bottom was tingling in anticipation and I felt moist between my legs. I looked down at the black square of her mortar board as it bobbed from side to side as she wrote. What is she writing I thought? What is so important that it has to be done right now? She knew I was coming; couldn’t she have waited until after I had left? I tried to see what it was; small neat writing between ruled lines of a fat ledger, but it was upside down so could not decipher it.

I wonder how many I will get; six of the best probably, that is generally what you get from the head? Will it hurt dreadfully? Probably, in a way I hope that it does; but I don’t want it to hurt so much that I cannot take it. Will she do it on the bare? I hope so; I really want to know what it feels like to be thrashed hard on the bare bottom with a school cane. I hope I don’t cry I wouldn’t want to disgrace myself. Oh God I need a pee. No I don’t it’s just my vagina getting wet.

Then the ledger was closed with a thump startling me out of my reverie and sending a draft across the desk scattering white chalk dust everywhere. She looked up at me, a hard scowling face much different to the gentle face I knew.

“Now then Miss Baxter,” not my real name but one we had agreed on for the character; “up before me again I see. What is this, the third time this term? Not good enough young lady. What must I do to make you behave? We will obviously have to use sterner measures this time.”

I looked down at my feet. I knew that all this was just make believe and I was really in an ordinary modest house in Surbiton. This was the twenty first century; but I felt like it was nineteen fifty two and I was up before the head for the third time this term. Naughty young girls at private school were still caned on their bare bottoms in those days and here was the head telling me that sterner methods were about to be used. Suddenly the enormity of the situation hit me. I realised that I was actually going to be caned just like the girls of that time. One of my masturbatory fantasies was about to become real; I felt a flood of wetness between my legs and I had to bring my legs together and compress my thighs.

I continued to stare at the floor while her acerbic tone droned on and then I heard the words that confirmed that one simple truth:

“So young lady I am left with no alternative but to cane you severely. You are going to be thoroughly punished and, what’s more, I am going to do it on your bare bottom. Hopefully, after I have punished you in this way you will learn to behave in a more decorous manner.”

She got up from behind the desk and stepped to the centre of the room.

“So, over here please to this desk, remove your knickers and bend over it.”

I stood before the pair of desks and faced their slopping tops. I noticed the inkwells at both corners and the crude scratching from previous pupils on the wooden lids. I put my fingers under my kilt and took hold of the waistband of my knickers and slowly pulled them down and stepped out of them. The wool of my skirt felt coarse against the bare flesh of my bottom. I positioned my hips against the top edge of the desk and bent over it. The hem of my skirt seemed dangerously short at the top of my thighs. I felt the material being lifted at the back and folded up over my waist; my bum cheeks felt cold and exposed.

I watched out the corner of my eye as the headmistress went to a tall cupboard at the side of the room and took out, not one but, three canes. She knew I was looking at her but paid no heed and stood there in her black gown flexing each cane, bending them double and then swishing each one through the air a few times. I had never heard a cane up close before; the noise they make is horrific and it filled me with dread.

Then she took up a position behind me and I could no longer see her. I sensed, more than felt, something touching the crown of my bum cheeks; it was smooth hard and thin. This is it, I thought. There was movement behind me, swift and fluid, that dreadful noise, it ended with a whack and then there was an explosion; an explosion of pain that had me gasping. My buttocks reacted with an involuntary quiver that seemed to send ripples down my legs and then, somewhere in the depths of my pelvic region around my vagina and womb, a dull ache began to develop and float to the surface. I could feel a welt forming and blossoming on the skin of my cheeks. I knew that already I had a purple stripe decorating my young skin and felt strangely proud.

Once more I sensed the touch of the cane to my skin, that movement again and the noise. The next stroke hit me hard and sharp expelling the breath from my lungs. It stung like crazy and I began to think that all the descriptions I had read about red hot searing pain were true. Another purple stripe was being etched on my tender flesh.

The next stroke had me howling out loud, leaping up and rubbing frantically at my bottom.

“That one does not count”, I heard the headmistress say. “If you are not going to remain in position, then the stroke will not be counted.”

This was so unfair I thought as I danced and rubbed at my scalding cheeks.

“So how many am I going to get” I asked?

“That is for me to decide, and I did not ask you to speak so in future you do not speak unless I ask you to. That will be one extra. Now bend back over that desk, remain in position throughout the punishment, and if you are impudent again or you jump up and bring your hands to your bottom without permission, the stroke will not count and you will get extra. Do you understand?”

I faced the desk once more and submissively bent over it.

“I said do you understand? When I ask a question I expect an answer.”

“Yes miss” I replied meekly, feeling even more disgruntled at the injustice.

Gone was the sweet lady asking permission to lightly spank my bottom over my skirt, gone was the kind lady giving me a present to help me realise my fantasies; here was the headmistress from hell punishing me harshly for being badly behaved. It would do me no good if I asked her to stop or if I had had enough. I was to expect no mercy from this lady, not today, not this time. This was real.

Five more strokes landed that had me howling out loud. I barely managed to remain bent over, my body twitched involuntarily with a movement that brought my shoulders up and made my legs kick about; but somehow I managed to stay well enough composed. I was in acute pain though.

“You may now stand and rub your bottom”, she allowed, “but we are not over yet.”

I leapt up and took my cheeks in both hands kneading at the flesh while hopping from leg to leg

I was allowed a few minutes to dance like this while the headmistress watched with a smug expression. Then she said;

“Now remove your blazer and skirt entirely and place them neatly over this chair.”

I continued to hop about while fumbling with the safety pin and the clasp that gathered the kilt. What was going to happen now I wondered?

“I want you standing facing me, perfectly still with your hands on your head; NOW, THIS INSTANT” She barked.

I jumped to attention obeying her instantly. She paced around the room looking me up and down, front and back. In my short blouse I was naked from the waist and this made me feel vulnerable; my bottom felt like a beacon. Her expression was difficult to interpret; a smile but one with no warmth. This lady is a very good actress I thought as I watched her strut about with such a self-satisfied expression; either that or schizophrenic; the cruel, hard headmistress character or the unassuming sweet suburban middle-aged lady.

She was still carrying the cane, flicking it against the side of her gown as she strutted.

“You have just received six of the best; well eight actually as you failed during one of those strokes and an extra was awarded for your impudence. That was the junior cane. I have three canes that I intend to use on you this morning, all varying in intensity. You will receive six of the best with each.”

Gosh, another twelve strokes, if I’m good, I thought. Can I take this I wonder?

She put the cane down and selected another.

“The next cane is a medium cane. It is longer, somewhat heavier and you will notice the difference; of this I am sure.”

She bent it double fixing me with eye contact and the cruel smile appeared on her face again. Then she swished it through the air a few times. The noise of it alone told me it was a far more formidable weapon.

“Back over the desk with you, we’ll see how you get on with this one.”

I resumed my position over the desk feeling totally exposed without my skirt this time and knowing that I had even more acute discomfort to come.

What am I doing here I thought as I bent there waiting? I must be crazy. I knew that I was fulfilling a sexual fantasy, but somehow all of the sexuality that had led me there had dissipated with the pain and discomfort. I had more pressing things on my mind right then, like how was I going to survive twelve more strokes of the cane from a lady that, not only is an expert at what she does but, is enthusiastically enjoying every minute of it?

It came as I was least prepared for it. It bit into my flesh like a swarm of piranha fish with needle sharp teeth all biting simultaneously.

“Oh Jesus, oh shit, oh shit, shit, shit.” I heard myself saying while stamping my feet in time. I am not in the habit of blaspheming normally.

I almost jumped up but remembered the rules and instead clung on to the back of the bench seat in front.

Waves of pain travelled up my legs. Oh God, how many of these can I take?

I was ready for the next, it didn’t help me to endure it any better however as I clung on like crazy. I still cried out and kicked about. Not only was this cane a bitch, I was sure that the headmistress was laying them on with more zeal. This was confirmed as I heard her chuckle at my antics.

The third and the fourth arrived with just as much drama, me crying out, my legs kicking and bending and the headmistress smirking at my distress.

The fifth had me up; despite the rules I just could not hang on, clutching at my flesh, massaging it trying to erase the pain.

“You know what this means don’t you Miss Baxter. How am I supposed to punish you properly if you keep jumping up like that? Not only will that stroke not count, but you will be awarded one extra. If it persists, two extra, then even three. It’s up to you. Now please bend over and do try to receive your punishment with good grace.”

I was determined not to receive more than I had to so clung on for dear life for the sixth, seventh and eighth; but I was in acute pain by the end and very close to tears.

“You may now stand and rub your bottom.”

I was up like a shot with no hesitation: rubbing, kneading, massaging, squeezing. Whatever I did though had no effect; the pain was unbearable and just would not go away.

The headmistress was certainly enjoying my distress now; watching me like a hawk as I hopped and rubbed. The enigmatic smile she had worn before had turned to a mask of glee. She allowed me to indulge the rubbing unrestrained; the more I showed my distress, the more she enjoyed it.

“I think I should allow you time to recover before we move on to the next stage; believe me you’re going to need it. So I think a bit of corner time is called for; I want you over there facing the wall, hands on your head, reflecting on what you have received so far and what more is to come. But before you go I think we should have everything off don’t you? Come on everything, you don’t deserve to wear that uniform anyway, totally nude, shoes and socks as well; quickly girl before I change my mind and double what you have just received.”

This I did not expect, I would have to comply I had no other choice. I removed all my clothes, feeling acutely aware of my miniscule breasts and covering them with my arms until I reached the corner. Only then did I expose them when I faced the wall and put my hands on my head.

The headmistress followed me to the corner and stood very close watching me. Now, not able to rub my poor cheeks, I was finding the pain difficult to endure and my legs shivered in spasms.

She came up behind me and began touching me. First she stroked the backs of my legs around my thighs and told me to relax. Then she traced the line of my spine with two fingers from my neck down to the crease of my bottom. She did this a few times; it sent tremors down my back. Then she began stroking the back of my neck with her palm, extending her fingers behind my ears and playing the lobes with the tips of her fingers. I had never been touched like this before and became seriously turned on. While her right hand stroked my neck, the other began palming my bum cheeks with soft sensuous movements, the fingers of that hand venturing between my cheeks; I could feel moisture from between my legs trickling down my thighs and had the urge to open them up. She traced each line of the welts on my bottom with her fingers, giving the occasionally pinch that made me yelp.

“What a poor sore punished bottom”, she whispered almost to herself; “so soft and young, yet so viciously punished.”

I did not know what to make of all this attention. A moment ago I was enduring intolerable pain, now I was feeling such exquisite pleasure. I yearned for more.

My tiny breasts were becoming so hard and longed to be touched.

The hand that had been behind my neck now ventured around to the front, under my arms to the sides of my breast. It cupped the tiny swelling there, I gasped.

“Ah, such sweet little titties,” she stage whispered close to my ear, “so delightfully small and yet so, so hard.”

I could not believe that my breasts, that had always been the cause of so much embarrassment for me, were now the objects of such a loving caress. Her hand moved sensuously across them and then one of the nipples was being squeezed between her fingers; then the other. She played with them, tweaking and flicking them, one after the other.

Then her hand venture from my breasts, stroking softly, over my abdomen to my pubic hair. I could not believe it. I brought my hands from my head and started turning to face her.

Immediately she was the headmistress from hell again. She violently hand slapped my bottom again.

“Did I give you permission to move” she barked?

“No Miss,” I was shocked and moved back into position.

“Then stay as you were and do not move.”

Then she became the sweet lady again as she whispered gently into my ear, “Stay where you are my little darling, I’ll be right back.”

I heard a rustling and sneaked a look over my shoulder. She was taking off her gown, then her skirt and blouse; she was getting undressed. I could not see her properly without turning around, but got the impression that, although she seemed old enough to be my mother, here was a lady that had looked after herself and was in great shape. She was facing the other way as she took of her bra, but she had a great back, tanned, strong with well-defined muscles and a slim waist. I was still admiring her as she turned again and I quickly had to face back to the wall.

I felt her come behind me.

“Now where were we?” She exhaled loudly and resumed her contact. I felt her breasts and hard nipples pressing against my back; she was very close. Her hand went back to my breasts while the other came around lower down to my pubic hair. She pushed there with her palm so that my bottom pressed against her abdomen. She moved against me her skin was warm and dry. Even though I was enjoying the sensation I found it hard to give in completely. I wanted her touch, I longed for it; I wanted the attention she was giving, but I kept telling myself that it was wrong. I am not a lesbian I thought; neither do I find older women attractive. My bottom was being soothed by the gentle touch of smooth abdomen and my breasts were being caressed by someone that knew what they were doing. This was not the inexperienced fumbling of a sixteen year old boy on the couch in our front room; this was someone that was totally and unconditionally intent on pleasuring me and knew just how to do it. There were advantages to this kind of behaviour after all.

The hand that had been pressing against my pubic bone was now going lower, the fingers were becoming extended. Now they were curling towards my vagina and I could not resist. I wanted it so much as the tips of her fingers explored between my labia that I let out a cry of “oh yes” and this encouragement caused them to delve deeper. They slipped in easily and dwelt there prolonging my ecstasy, slowly encircling my clitoris.

“I think it must be time for some more thrashing my dear?” She whispered into my ear after too soon.

“Oh no, please, can’t we just carry on like this?” I gasped.

“No, time for some more pain I think my little sweet, we can’t have you enjoying this too much; can we?” And with that she broke away leaving me hanging and so close to an exquisite orgasm.

Oh how I wanted more of her caresses, my vagina felt empty now as I stood there in the corner feeling dejected. My eyes were closed and I was savouring the memory of the deep penetration that I missed so much. I was startled out of my daydream by the dark, low, sinister growl of a new cane being whistled through the air and I found myself looking forward to the pain it would bring.

She took me by one hand and led me back to the desk.

“Come on my little sweet, let’s see how much more damage we can do to this lovely bottom of yours? Let’s see if we can raise some blood shall we?”

She very gently eased me back over the desk, leading me by one hand and the other comforting me around the back of my neck. Once in position she lovingly adored and stroked the buttocks she was about to thrash, kissed each one on the crown and then took up her stance. She was much further forward this time, bringing her more in line with my shoulders and, if I turned my head a little, I could see her quite clearly preparing for the stroke.

Apart from a leather thong she was naked. If I had been fascinated earlier by her strong back, the rest of her was magnificent. What a far cry from the sweet middle aged lady of Surbiton this vision was. The transformation was so phenomenal I thought my eyes were deceiving me; but she had been wearing a grey wig and had now taken it off. Her hair was long and dark and it now flowed down her back. She was not middle-aged at all but quite young, tanned and muscular; clearly she worked out on a regular basis. Her muscles were long, sinuous and in perfect proportion throughout. Why on earth did she hide behind that mantle of suburbia I thought? Perhaps it varied from client to client and that was the character that she had chosen for me. What a professional.

But now I had other things to worry about; I needed to prepare for more exquisite pain. I watched as the cane, held firmly in her powerful hand, was drawn back over her shoulder, her gaze was fixed upon my tender rump and then with a grunt and a quick flip back of her wrist she powered forth with a stroke that thundered through the air and descended in a flash upon my offered bare bottom.

All the pain that I had endured while there in that schoolroom was nothing compared to this; it threw me forward across the desk and it knocked all the breath from me in a spasm of agony that had me gasping. I knew that it would take every bit of self-determination and resolve to endure any more. I clung in desperation to the bench-seat in front, shaking with the shock and with waves of pain pulsing through me and awaited the next. I turned my head to the left the better to see my tormenter; she was standing there totally relaxed, just watching and waiting, the cane was held loosely at her side and her legs were astride. Seeing her like that with her impressive breasts firm and erect, I became aware of how proud I felt being punished by someone so magnificent. That she should spend time and energy on someone like me who is so insignificant by comparison, that she should be prepared to strip off and allow me to gaze at her divine body, honoured me.

I watched as she took aim with the cane once more, her face was controlled concentration. I saw the cane get drawn back over her shoulder, the veins and sinews of her arm stood out etched pale against her tanned skin. There was that same grunt at the effort and flip of the wrist as the wand flashed and whined through the air, then that exquisite sting that racked my body and had me howling and crying at the sheer ecstasy of it. Oh how I loved what was happening to me and I adored the woman that was doing it. I wanted more than anything to show her how strong I was and how able to endure the pain I was. I desperately held the bench less I show any weakness and stifled my tears the best I could.

My eyes were now closed I did not want to let the tears out; I was lost in the blackness of my soul letting the rapture engulf me and my head was spinning. She had come behind me and was comforting my sore bottom with the palm of her hand. I loved her soothing touch. Her fingers were lightly brushing between my cheeks and then venturing between my legs at the back. She was lifting the fleshiest part of my buttock testing its weight. The tips of her fingers were parting my labia, they slid gracefully between my lips and the pleasure it caused overwhelmed me. Somewhere in the distance I heard her gently saying, “What a poor sore bottom. So sweet and yet so cruelly punished.” She fondled some more and then resumed her previous stance beside me with cane in hand.

Two more strokes followed; there was more pain and more fondling, nursing, finger tip penetration and extreme pleasure; and then I was awaiting the final two strokes not wanting them to come for then it would all be over. I could feel moisture flowing down my thighs but could not tell if it was blood or my own juices. It did not matter; let me bleed for you my darling, it is nothing compared to what you have given me.

The penultimate stroke arrived and with it the drama of the impact. My eyes had been closed for most of this session but now they opened and the tears that had been trapped behind closed lids gushed forth and my sobs came in gasping gulps. I was leaking now from both ends and viewed my surroundings through a liquid haze. I felt comforting arms around my shoulders and my neck was being kissed.

“Oh my poor, poor angel, just one more to go and then it will all be over. There, there my poor sweet just one more.”

Urgently, as though waiting would be too cruel, the final stroke arrived. I was devastated by it and ended up hanging limply over the desk with my arms loosely over the seat back in front. My tears were flowing freely and my sobs came in great gulps.

“There, there my little sweet, don’t cry. You’ll spoil that pretty face of yours. Come on up you get, come my little darling.”

Firm arms surrounded my shoulders and eased me up straight. I was turned around and the next thing I was being hugged in a warm embrace with my head resting on a soft neck. The neck was so soft and smelled so lovely that I began to kiss it. I was aware that we were face to face with our chests against each other. My hard little breasts were pressed against hers, our nipples touched and our abdomens stroked one another’s. I felt her hands run down my back to my bottom and she gently eased the pain there with her soft stroking. My hands were behind her and I stroked the muscles of her back and shoulders. Her sinuous thigh came between my legs and I gripped it tightly between mine.

I looked up at her longing for some more of her caresses; I must have looked pathetic with tears still in my eyes for she smothered my eyes with kisses. Then our mouths were together and we were kissing deeply our tongues fighting for space between our teeth. She tasted sweet and smelled so warm and exciting. Our embraces became so desperate with longing for each other that our kisses began covering every bit of flesh we could find.

We were on the floor without realising it, splinters from the bare floor boards spiked at my tender behind but I did not care and relished the continuing attention to that part of me. She was on top of me and turned around to face my feet straddling my head. My knees were up and her head found the space between my thighs, her tongue the button between my lips. I reached up grabbing at the leather of her thong and wrenched it off. My tongue extended as far as it would go and the tip found her spot. She settled down onto me and my tongue explored between her lips. She was sending wave upon wave of glorious pleasure through me and responding in kind with murmurs and squeals of delight. We were both in an intoxicated rapture of licking, tasting and savouring each other. Our breaths were short and gasping so close to orgasm.

I wanted to pull her apart and climb inside her my lust was so great and I found my arms were reaching up to explore the body moving so passionately above me. They found her lovely rounded cheeks bent over so provocatively and, I could not resist it, began spanking them hard, as hard as I could one after the other. Her tongue became desperate inside me and mine within her. From somewhere within the unity of our two bodies came a yearning, a sudden passing caprice of an urge at first, which developed substance. It grew in intensity engrossing us. We both shared the rising flood of spectacular emotion as we were carried up, up, up, and then we were both flying in the most glorious climax.

With that lady in Surbiton that morning I experienced the most fulfilling event of my life. I knew then that sexual relationships would never be the same ever again. I realised with which gender my sexual preferences lay and it awakened in me the pleasures to be found in consensual sado-masochism. I was technically still a virgin, but I had given myself so totally to the headmistress and she had led me step by step, through illusion and disguise, promise and reward, and taught me to throw off preconceived ideas and open up to new experiences.

I continued to see her regularly, usually at the start of the Christmas and Easter recesses and perhaps two or three times during the summer holidays. It had to be like that even though I desperately wanted more as my bottom always needed time to recover before I went back to school. For she did draw blood that morning and on every subsequent occasion; deep gashes of broken skin on my tender behind went home with me from Surbiton that morning. I wore them with pride for the few days that it took them to heal, the martyr’s marks that served to constantly remind me of the sacrifice I had endured for my awakening.

It was during one summer school holiday that I had been sharing a tent with Elaine at a guide camp. Just two days prior to this I had visited my lady in Surbiton and we had engaged in a particularly heavy session of caning. Elaine had noticed the marks on my bottom, I had just not been careful enough to hide them. Rather than being shocked or horrified she had been understanding and had even wanted to examine my bottom more closely. This had resulted in her becoming so sympathetic that she fell in love with my punished bottom. So I would let her punish me so that I might experience that love. Over time this became a love of me and from me a love of her.

(The End)