The punishments take the same form every time, a good solid spanking, a tawsing, the martinet, the cane. It is the length of time I am spanked, the amount of strokes I get, the heaviness of the tawse, the thickness of the cane, which varies, depending on my confession. Disobedience during the punishment session is entirely down to me and, foolish person that I am, I manage to do something ridiculous every time, and earn extra strokes. Entirely my fault, but I will learn. I am learning fast!
My fifteen minutes are up; ahead is the most unbelievable able agony of all. He nods, and I walk slowly and reluctantly to the stool and lay over it, waiting for the Master to buckle the straps firmly round my wrists and ankles. I cannot move, I have tried before, believe me I have tried. The straps are three inches wide, the buckles large and solid, they hold me rigidly in place, legs splayed, arms outstretched, all my weight resting on the padded top. No pressure can be brought to strain against the straps, so now I don’t even try.
The Master is taking his time choosing the cane, I hear them moving on the rack. A heavy one, to cut me? A light one, to bite me? No matter, they all hurt.
He comes close, the cane is whipped through the air, every time. I wait, almost breathless, feeling so sick. The caning begins. Each time I tell myself no one can hurt that much, and each time it seems worse than the time before. Only six, only six but each is a nightmare in itself because he takes his time; they are delivered slowly, with great force, or is it that I am already so thrashed any pressure would hurt? I scream at him to let me go, but know even as I cry out that it will make no difference. I am afraid that one day I will shout something and he will increase the caning to twelve. Then what would I do?
Lie there and take it. And then it is over, I am unstrapped, I can stand up, I can fall down at his feet and thank him for the thrashing.
He acknowledges my thanks with a small smile. He switches off the lights as I go to the small room where I remove all my clothes and lie face down on the narrow, hard bed - and wait. I am still crying, the pain is intense, I do not know what to do with my hands, or my poor thighs and bottom. The air is cool, at least that helps, but a new feeling is taking over. The feeling that will only be satisfied by fucking. It builds hard. I long to reach down to massage my own sex to bring myself to orgasm but that would ruin what is to come.
The best bit of all.
In a short time the Master will come, and spread cold cream on my burning bottom; ease the pain, send his fingers walking into my wet places, for now I am very wet and waiting. At a signal, a tap on my neck, I will lift myself up onto my elbows and knees and wait, thighs splayed, for him to enter me with his long hard cock, longer and harder than anyone else I know! And he will thrust at me and I will push back against him putting pressure on the marked cheeks, even as he does, until I explode with an orgasm that makes the whole thing worthwhile.
My boss has read this from end to end, several times. I have sat uncomfortably still and watched him read it, watched the glow in his eyes and the look on his face. I never knew, until now.
I told him how much I pay the Master. He says he will do that for me, and more, for nothing. It is an offer that is impossible to refuse.
But I will still visit the Master occasionally, because he was the first and because unless my boss turns out to be brilliant and fantastic, the Master will still be the best. Even the thought of his coldness sends me into an anticipatory glow, the memory of his beatings set the juices flowing.,
In truth, in my life, there is no one like the Master.
On Course at Cornfield
Here’s a novella dealing with ladies who are unsure, but curious, and ladies who are bold enough to seek what they want, within a school framework. This story was read and vetted by a very dear friend, since departed this mortal world for the place where all ladies are willing and no one bats an eyelid at the sound of a session. It is dedicated to his memory with my love and thanks for my memories.
Tall, distinguished, good looking, hair greying just a touch at the temples, Richard Edwards looked every inch the successful businessman. His suit was well cut and an expensive shirt and tie completed the overall impression of elegance and wealth.
And why not? Business Dynamics Ltd, was going from strength to strength and the acquisition of Cornfield School only added to the prestige of attending one of the residential courses offered to the business world. It seemed, even in this financial climate, that firms were prepared to pay to educate their up and coming young executives, if only to give them an edge on their competitors, and in return Richard was only too pleased to take the money and supply a fortnight of unashamed luxury. The young executives lived in style, attending a rigorous course in business studies. An iron fist in a velvet glove. The studies were hard, the discussions often heated but held in such elegant surroundings it could only help create the right impression on impressionable minds. Add first class meals, and the formula was complete. The courses were booked solidly until the end of the year.
All this, and Emmy too, thought Richard, smoothing the dust-free surface of his desk. Emmy was as much a find as the school, indeed, as the whole concept of Business Dynamics had been in the first place.
He sat down in a large leather chair and selected a fine cigar from the box. With any luck Emmy might drop by to discuss the imminent arrival of the next twenty trainees and to share in a little extra-curricular activity or, as he preferred to call it, discipline. Blowing a cloud of smoke into the air, Richard opened the centre drawer of his desk and ran his finger along the pliable rattan cane. It reposed on a bed of white blotting paper, which cushioned its rest between periods of duty: inflicting all that pain, giving all that pleasure.
Business Dynamics had moved from a small house in the village up to Cornfield School when the number of trainees proved too much for the place. Once an expensive boarding school, but slowly bankrupted by the loss of parents willing to pay exorbitant fees, Cornfield School had come onto the market at just the right time.
A number of people had applied for the various positions and Richard had interviewed them all himself. Mrs Williamson had stood out as an exceptional housekeeper cum-trained nurse, able to supervise the overall running of the school. The chef had been enticed from the five-star hotel in the village by an offer he could not refuse – a good salary and a self contained rent-free flat. The gardener had come willingly from the ranks of the local unemployed, and finally he had chosen Emmy and Penny, general maids for want of a better description.
At first he had had difficulty in telling them apart. They were both buxom country girls, well endowed in all the right places, with round faces, deep blue eyes and a mop of dark hair. But there was a difference, a considerable difference, as he was to find out later to his amusement and happiness.
It had been so casual at first he hadn’t quite realised what was happening. Emmy had been busy dusting the study which had once been the headmaster’s office, when she asked casually: ‘Did old Mr Harpener leave his cane behind, Mr Edwards?’
‘Did he what?’ Richard had been jolted out of his contemplation of the accounts to take in her question.
‘Did the old headmaster leave his cane behind?’ Emmy repeated patiently.
Richard thought furiously. Was she? Wasn’t she? Was it a casual question? It couldn’t be - no one asked that kind of casual question these days!
‘As a matter of fact, - er...’
‘Emmy, sir!’ A half smile and a deep blush.
‘Thank you, Emmy. As a matter of fact, he did. Any reason why?’
‘Well now,’ she said as she leaned over the bookcase to dust the framed diplomas on the wall. Richard took in the generous backside straining at the seams of her uniform while waiting patiently for what he hoped would be the answer he desired. ‘There are them as might like it, if you get my meaning, sir.’
‘Would you be one of them, Emmy?
’ he said, smiling as the blush grew deeper. ‘Whatever you say won’t go any further than this room, I can assure you of that.’
‘And I believe you, sir, that I do. Yes I would be one of them.’
‘Well, perhaps later.’
Richard had turned back to his papers to give Emmy a chance to recover from her blushes. Nothing more was said on the oh so delicate subject and finally she left the room.
When she had gone, Richard sat up, tapping his fingers on the blotter and whistling softly to himself. There had been a few, far too few, ladies who hadn’t minded the odd slap or two, but only one who had actually gone across his knees for a bare-bottomed spanking at the mere suggestion of the word; but that had been a long time ago and he had despaired of ever finding anyone again willing to submit to a tanning of any kind. It had crossed his mind that by occupying Cornfield School he would be taking on the role of headmaster but he couldn’t exactly order willowy young ladies with delectable rear-ends to wait outside his office for their just desserts. Nor could he ask the lecturers to send people to him for discipline either although, from comments he had heard from time to time, there were no doubt occasions when they wished they could do just that!
He had to wait a full three days before Emmy shyly knocked at his door and slid into the room, her eyes downcast, her cheeks red with embarrassment.
‘What is it, Emmy?’ He hoped this would be the first of many interesting visits, if he played his cards right.
‘I called to see you, sir, about what we was talking about the other day.’
‘Oh, you mean Mr Harpener’s cane.’
She nodded, staring at the thick pile carpet.
‘Well, Emmy, I’ve got the cane right here in the desk but I’ve a confession to make – I’ve never caned anyone in my life.’
‘Haven’t you, sir?’ She looked up, eyes flashing with curiosity. ‘But you are interested, aren’t you, sir? I didn’t pick the wrong one, did I?’
‘No, Emmy. You didn’t pick the wrong one, as you put it, I’m very interested indeed, but until now I’ve not owned a cane and up to now I’ve not had the opportunity to do it. There have been a few ladies who didn’t mind a slap or two, but that’s all, and before you ask, no, there isn’t a Mrs Edwards, so if you’re agreeable you’ll be the first. But I warn you, I might not be as accurate as you’d like.’
‘But you’ll learn, sir, you’ll learn, I’m sure of that.’
To Richard’s surprise she pulled down her white cotton knickers and leaned over his desk, waiting. He stared in astonishment at the expanse of white flesh, and then opened the desk drawer and took out the cane. He flexed it a few times, feeling its strength and flexibility, and then went to stand at one side of Emmy, who was so very still. He had no idea of what she was feeling, embarrassment, anticipation, apprehension, genuine fear knowing he was a novice? Whatever it was, he could not out of all kindness keep her waiting.
Richard brought the cane down across her very wide cheeks, marvelling at the instant red line which sprang up, noticing with pure pleasure how the skin rebounded again. The lines weren’t straight, far from it, so he tried again, aiming carefully. This time he created a perfectly straight line, and a movement from Emmy, a sort of shiver. Pleasure? He hoped so, for it was giving him a lot of pleasure. With a sigh of pure happiness he carried on.
Over the next few weeks Richard learned a little of Emmy’s past, how she had been regularly beaten by her father for all manner of misdemeanours, usually with a thick leather belt. For a while that had put her off any kind of bottom warming but a boyfriend beat her, half in anger, half in fun with a hazel switch which had implanted in her a desire to feel the cane. But until she had come to work at the school, there had been no opportunity.
Richard learned to use the cane properly. To his great surprise and gratitude, Emmy was more than willing to stay bent over his desk for what seemed like an age, being whipped again and again with the stinging flexible cane, which left large angry weals across her ample cheeks. He learned to place the strokes exactly where he wanted them, to leave a small space between each mark and not criss-cross the lines so that every single stroke was a sharp pain in itself. The day he produced a cry from Emmy’s otherwise sealed lips was the day he felt he had finally learned his craft. That was also the day when she slid to the floor, wet and waiting, and held out her arms for him to enter her. Richard did it with the same willingness he had learned to cane in the first place. There wasn’t a jealous bone in Emmy’s body. She knew Richard would appreciate a varied diet. She became his spy, seeking out people she thought might be interested, dropping sly hints, judging by the reaction whether they were interested or not. Occasionally a magazine or book would reveal a trainee’s interest, and she would leave a small note when she cleaned the room. Inevitably the person would end up in Richard’s office, bent over his desk or with their head pressed deep, into the thick cushions of the chair on the other side of the desk, bottom bared for the stinging strokes of the cane. It worked wonders for those lagging behind in their studies, and for those who had guilty consciences about their lack of enthusiasm for the course. It was a bonus for the devotee of the gentle art of CP. Sometimes they offered more than a willing bottom and Richard was ready to oblige every time.
And there was always good old, reliable trusted Emmy, of whom he was inordinately fond, for comfort and solace when he had caned and hadn’t been rewarded with the sexual release he craved.
The huge wrought-iron gates stood sentinel at the start to the long winding drive which ended before the mellow stone of Cornfield School. The autumn sun showed the building in its finest light, the golden rays touching leaded windows, and the vivid scarlet of the creeper climbing around the porch.
Carole Davidson looked at the floor plan of the school framed in the huge cool hallway. Her suitcase was heavy despite the fact that she was only staying for two weeks. Somehow there had seemed to be so much to pack, things she simply could not live without. The case had grown heavier and heavier as she carried it from the station to the taxi and now into the school. She experienced a sense of relief when one of the maids appeared and offered to take her case for her.
‘Here’s your room, Miss.’The smiling girl put the case on the bed and quietly left without giving Carole an opportunity to offer a tip.
‘Well trained staff,’ thought Carole, looking out of the tall windows across the sweeping lawns to the swimming pool which reflected the rays of the dying sun.
She looked around the room. The drapes were heavy red velvet and beneath her feet a rich red carpet gave a look of warmth and luxury to the room. There was a large desk under the window, the fireplace was filled with a gas fire and was flanked by two comfortable looking armchairs. In the recesses bookshelves waited. There were already books in place, paperbacks and heavier more studious looking tomes. Behind her was the bed, the wardrobe and the dressing-table. It was all the brochure had said it would be - and more. Carole opened the suitcase. She unpacked swiftly, putting clothes and books away and finally arranged the homely touches, the silver-framed photograph of her fiancé David, and the small stuffed donkey which went everywhere with her.
When it was done she sat down at the dressing-table to comb her long dark hair and study her skin for tired lines. Her deep brown eyes saw a face that pleased her, smooth brow, and pointed chin completing an oval. The hair fell forward, framing her face and she sighed, partly with relief, partly with tiredness. A bath would have been nice but there wasn’t really time for a long relaxing session before dinner. It would have to wait until bedtime. She paused, comb suspended in the air. Bedtime. A fortnight without David didn’t seem that long, not really, but a fortnight without the sting of the cane across her shapely bottom was something else. She would just have to work hard and try to forget about it until she was in David’s arms again or over his desk, whichever came first...
Hazel Jennings paid off the taxi and turned to look at the building that had SCHOOL written all over it. I’m grown up now, she told herself. But it didn’t stop her feeling remarkably like a schoolgirl again as she walked through the large doors into the hallway. Noticeboards are noticeboards, she thought: tacked with rusting pins and showing out-of-date announcements; bet this one’s no different. But it was. The plastic-capped pins weren’t at all rusty and there wasn’t a single out-of-date notice there, only lists of lectures and invitations to out-of-hours meetings and social gatherings.
Well, well, she thought with a smile. Things are looking up. But it still feels like school.
A maid appeared from nowhere, asking her name and, picking up her case. Hazel followed, wondering what she was doing there.
I’m being silly, she told herself for the millionth time. This course was tor adults, for grown people who didn’t have teachers shouting at them or sending them outside or handing out detention or - she grinned wryly – trying to knock some sense and manners into you with a strap. This was far removed from those days yet the mere thought of going back into a school environment had been enough to stop her signing on earlier, when it had been proposed.
‘No fear,’ she had replied, startling her boss with her vehemence. ‘I had enough of school when I was there, no chance of going back, thank you!’And all his reasoning hadn’t made any difference, then. But Harry had been persuasive, anxious for her to improve herself as much as she could. Holding back from a chance of training and promotion over something as silly as unhappy school memories was nothing short of foolish. In the end she had given in, convinced by logic.
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