The Academy

by Arabella Knight

  Susie refused to strip. But she was careful.

  ‘I never sleep in the raw. Please may I keep these things on? Please?’

  Miranda’s first impulse was to soften and relent. There was, after all, something about this spoiled little bitch that struck a deep chord. What was it? What could it be? Why did she feel so drawn to this little minx? A wilful, pert little beauty accustomed to getting her own way. Ungovernable and undisciplined. It came to Miranda in a flash. Of course… the insight was as complete as it was unsettling. She saw herself in Susie, and Susie in herself. Both spoiled, monied little bitches. Miranda chuckled softly.

  ‘No. You must take them off now. Be quick about it,’ she urged.

  ‘Shan’t. Want to be warm,’ Susie sulked. ‘Let me keep them on,’ she wheedled.

  Miranda took a firm hand in the matter. She stripped the girl briskly and then bent her over the edge of the bed. Susie struggled but Miranda held her in a capable grip.

  ‘I will make sure that you go to bed warm, my girl.’

  ‘Pig,’ yelled Susie over her shoulder, her soft buttocks joggling as they shivered in expectation of the spanking to come.

  ‘If I don’t punish you, be sure that someone else will. And believe me, Susie, it won’t be pleasant.’

  Smack. Smack. Smack. The firm, spanking hand sang out sweetly and loudly on the fully rounded bottom, stinging it sharply with each crisp slap. Susie writhed, her thin waist, swelling hips and shapely bottom sensuous and provocatively knowing in their sinuous squirming. Miranda noticed the cleft between the gorgeous little pert cheeks widening slightly as the delectable Susie wriggled and writhed under the discipline.

  Smack. Smack. Smack. The spanks exploded as hot hand kissed hotter cheeks. Miranda found herself growing deliciously sticky. Soon she was deliriously wet. Susie lay, subdued and naked, across her lap.

  ‘Susie, I want your spell at the Academy to be misery free. Believe me. I do not want you to suffer. Not more than you deserve. Trust me. I mean to curb and bridle your spirit. Crush the demon in you. You will thank me when you understand.’

  Miranda stood up, picked up the cane and addressed Susie’s scalded buttocks, tapping the reddening cheeks with the tip of the cruel wood.

  Swish. Swipe. Susie squealed, clenching her cheeks and drumming her little heels.

  ‘You will quickly come to understand that what I am doing is for your own good.’

  Swish. Swipe. Another slicing stroke that bit the double domes savagely. Susie sobbed a dry sob. Her fingers flexed as they gripped the bedclothes. Her little, punished nectarine-shaped rump bucked and bounced.

  ‘Susie. You must remain still. You must accept any and every punishment I, or any other empowered to thrash you, decide to administer. Do you understand?’

  Silence. Swish. Swipe.

  ‘Yes, yes… I understand.’

  ‘Good.’

  The cane came to rest lightly on the upper quadrant of the left buttock.

  ‘Now get into bed.’

  Susie turned and buried herself into Miranda’s full bosom.

  ‘Daddy never spanked me,’ she sobbed. ‘Never.’

  She curled up like a kitten in Miranda’s lap, her hot bottom pressed against Miranda’s naked thigh. Miranda’s fluttering fingertips traced the taut curves of the punished girl’s flesh. Susie snuggled into Miranda, pressing her soft breasts into Miranda’s firmer flesh. The punisher’s warm hand cupped and cradled the punished’s hot bottom, holding and keeping it in an embrace of dominant affection, of tough tenderness. Miranda felt the sniffling girl’s head settle gently on her shoulder. Teardrops splashed down, wetting her white cotton vest.

  ‘Bedtime,’ Miranda whispered gently.

  ‘OK,’ Susie snuffled, planting a shy, wet kiss full onto Miranda’s surprised, half parted lips.

  Miranda tucked the girl snugly into bed, patting the crisp sheet down into the soft, warm body of the passive girl, her eager fingers seeking and finding unresisting clefts of shadowed warmth. Bending down closely, Miranda kissed Susie, now acquiescently submissive, tenderly on her rosebud mouth. Susie smiled a wide, happy smile and rolled over sleepily. A tiny voice inside Miranda’s head thrilled. These were the joys of being in charge, in control. A redband had pleasures she had not dreamed of ever experiencing. A redband… damn. She had left her band down in the gym.

  Miranda didn’t bother with the light. She remembered taking off her badge of authority and leaving it across the top o0f the leather vaulting horse before chastising the rebellious Susie’s bottom against the wall bars. Yes. There is was.

  In the darkness of the gym, she rolled the redband up in her right hand, reflecting dreamily on the pleasures that lay before her. Zoe’s breasts, Clare’s bottom, Susie’s will. All hers to relish, enjoy and dominate. Yes. Dominate. For true pleasure had its deep roots in control as well as sensuous experiences of flesh directly on flesh.

  Arranging the redband on her upper arm, she was about to leave the dark, deserted gym when voices, deep in conversation, approached. Looking around for somewhere to hide — as escape was impossible — Miranda slunk back into the recess where the gym equipment was stored. There, shrouded in darkness heavy with the smell of dust and girlish sweat, she cowered behind a heap of prickly matting.

  The door squeaked and yawned wide. A click. The harsh strip of neon flickered and blazed.

  Miranda crouched painfully down, her breasts punished as they squashed into the wiry mats. The harsh light flooded every corner of the gym. Into the swathe of brilliance stepped Mrs Boydd-Black, followed by the termagant maths teacher, Miss Eaddes.

  The fearsome maths teacher wore a loose pale blue track suit unzipped casually to her navel. Her full breasts, creamy and shiny, bounced freely. The cleavage caused Miranda’s mouth to water as it once would to roast duckling with a tossed green salad after an hour or two in the paddock on a brisk spring morning.

  Whatever they had been talking about, the discussion was over. In absolute silence they took up what seemed to be well rehearsed positions. A familiar routine. Miranda watched in amazement as the headmistress shook off and stepped out of her silk dressing gown. It fell into a pool on the floor. Underneath, Miranda saw the firm, full breasts held in the tight clasp of a front fastening black brassie`re. So heavy were the breasts that the two black shoulder straps bit into the flesh of Mrs Boydd-Black’s shoulders. Wispy, black lace panties stretched across her supple hips. The panties were high-waisted, the fabric taut, adding a touch of surprising severity to the erotic femininity.

  Miranda focused back on her headmistress’s breasts. A little over-ripe, perhaps? But what a choice bosom to submit to. Miranda fleetingly imagined herself being breastfed by the dominant Mrs Boydd-Black. Forced to accept and suck the pendulous breasts. Sucking them with eagerness before being spun over in the ample lap to have her bottom smacked soundly by those large, white hands.

  Highly charged from her disciplining of Clare, Zoe and Susie — yes, especially Susie — Miranda was almost at fever pitch. A slow volcano slumbered and stirred within her. A volcano that emitted little tongues of liquid fire between her glistening thighs. Her mind too was molten, hot and fluid with delicious fancies.

  Miranda held her breath as she crouched and saw Miss Eaddes unpocket several lengths of thin rope together with a thick white bandage. Wordlessly, the headmistress walked over to the wall bars and stood up against them facing the deserted gym. Miss Eaddes followed her, hands full of the wherewithall for the bondage and domination session.

  First, the austerely beautiful Mrs Boydd-Black submitted to the roll of bandage which, when deftly applied, deprived her totally of both sight and speech. Then each spreadeagled wrist and ankle was offered up in turn to be tied tightly to the polished wall bars. Trussed and immobile, the headmistress was rendered utterly helpless. Miss Eaddes eased down the panties with her slim fingers as far as the naked, splayed legs before her would allow. Those same slim fingers pinched a tuft of the exposed pubic
hair and tweaked it gently, gave it a twist that caused her vulnerable, willing victim to gasp and then pulled the fuzz ruthlessly.

  Miranda’s hand flew up to her wide open mouth. More sweet, punishing abuse was dealt to the helpless headmistress who moaned softly under the exploring hands and tenderly cruel fingers which pinched and probed, slapped and caressed her passive nakedness. Stepping back as if to survey her victim, Miss Eaddes scrutinised every knot carefully, checking the security and severity of her handiwork — then promptly left the gym. In her taut bondage, the headmistress endured her sweet suffering. Miranda blinked, almost disbelievingly. She paused in her hiding place for several seconds then decided to make her escape.

  She rose carefully and started to creep, with a feline stealth, towards the gym door. In the darkness — for Miss Eaddes had snapped off the harsh neon light — Miranda’s toe stubbed on the dull weight of a medicine ball. The pain flashed crimson across her eyes. The medicine ball rolled silently towards a group of four green and yellow skittles, scattering them on impact. The noise filled the gym like a reverberating thunderclap as the skittles rolled across the hard wooden floor.

  ‘Hmmm?’ grunted the naked, trussed Mrs Boydd Black, startled and alarmed, ‘Hnnghh?’

  Miranda, breathing deeply to calm her frazzled nerves, steadied herself and made for the gym door.

  ‘Who’s there? Who are you?’ mumbled the headmistress thickly. In her urgent anxiety, she had clearly managed to work a corner of the bandage from her mouth.

  ‘Speak up. Come here. Undo this blindfold. At once. Do you hear me?’

  Despite her obvious predicament, the headmistress spoke in her usual imperious tone that brooked no gainsay or denial. Miranda paused. On the brink of flight, she was suddenly swept by a surge of pity and tenderness for this strong, determined, charismatic woman. This lonely woman. Yes, Miranda suddenly realised. Lonely. Lonely enough to seek these furtive pleasures alone. A peculiarly solo joy, down in the gym after hours, with no partner to pleasure her further. Burdened by the heavy and onerous duties and responsibilities of office, she sought scant release in this way. A widow, with no apparent attachments. And still a young woman. A strikingly beautiful young woman.

  Miranda hesitated by the door, turned around and padded softly over to where Mrs Boydd-Black stood arraigned in the disciplining ropes and knots of bondage. Approaching the naked woman, Miranda placed a soothing hand on the soft, gleaming shoulder, patting it reassuringly.

  Mrs Boydd-Black jerked her face up, inquiringly. Miranda placed a single raised finger against the slightly parted lips that lay red and wet beneath the loosened bandage gag. The tense muscles of Mrs Boydd-Black’s arched back slackened and relaxed immediately at Miranda’s touch. Even more so as Miranda’s flattened palm swept down across the plump breasts, squashing them fleetingly before resting gently against the taut belly. The cool palm returned to the breasts, to stroke and tease the ripening nipples before cupping and weighing the taut, warm bosoms.

  ‘Please… please…’ the headmistress almost whimpered.

  Miranda suddenly resolved to give her anxious, expectant captive a delicious treat. A treat the lone, neglected woman would never forget. Into each life a little thigh-moistening ecstasy must fall, she mused as she stretched up to firmly re-tie the bandage that gagged the full, sensuous mouth. A mouth more accustomed to barking commands and ordering swift punishments. Punishments that scorched quivering, naked buttocks bending before the magisterial presence.

  Now Miranda had tamed that mouth, a delicious thrill stole into her soul. She returned from the dusty recess moments later with trembling hands. In the grip of her fluttering fingers she caressed an inverted wooden juggling club. Grasping the club by the tapered base, she gently inserted the thick stubby end between the loose breasts that swung down before her. Slowly, lingeringly, she rolled the club from side to side, forcing down on the heavy wood to flatten and squash the pliant fleshy bosoms. Soon she was shafting the length of the club up and down the perspiring cleavage.

  In her taut bondage, the captive writhed in unashamed delight. Miranda traced the belly, hips and thighs with the blunt nub of the club, delineating every swelling curve with tremulous delicacy before finally addressing the pubic delta and placing the tapered tip up between the parted thighs.

  The wet, pink labia received the stubby shaft eagerly. The recipient groaned thickly. A deep, sweet groan. It made Miranda’s fluttering belly curdle. Slowly, she inched the thin, smooth shaft up inside the spreadeagled, bound and helpless headmistress. Noting the clenching buttocks, the tautening belly, Miranda gave it a half turn, rotating the club between sweating palms. Then another twist. Her happy victim rose up in an arch of response. Another full inch upwards. Another deliberate half turn. The oiled shaft of wood grew warm with an oozing, sticky wetness. Miranda smiled with grim satisfaction, and gave the club another teasing halfturn twist. The headmistress shuddered and gasped. An oath escaped her tightly gagged lips. Miranda chuckled softly and continued to ply the devilish wooden shaft upwards.

  When a full five inches were buried in the soft warmth, Miranda slowly dragged it down until the tip nudged the quivering labia, then quickly reinserted it, dragging it slowly down again before plunging it back into its sheath of glistening muscles. With gathering rapidity and momentum, the shaft shot up and down within the headmistress. Behind her taut gag, her breathing became rapid and shallow. Miranda noticed the flared nostrils. Now.

  Gripping the base of the juggling club, she plunged the dripping shaft up and down in a frenzied flurry, taking care to ensure that the smooth wood dragged itself against the tiny pink clitoris. Mrs Boydd-Black arched and stiffened, quivered for a full 30 seconds and then slumped and sagged within her tight cords of restraint. Smashed and pulverised by the orgasm that savaged her so sweetly, she hung in her crucified bondage in spent exhaustion. Miranda stretched up and planted three soft kisses on each outstretched palm before stealing out softly from the gym. Shaking with excitement and triumph, she padded swiftly and silently back towards her empty dormitory.

  Chapter Six

  Mr Porteous inserted the video cassette with trembling fingers. Outside, in the yellowing light of a dull November afternoon, the heavy Fulham Road traffic snarled up. Impatient taxis honked. Inside his office, the secretive solicitor arranged six darkly shining chocolate eclairs in a perfectly symmetrical pattern of radiating spokes on the wheel of his priceless Dresden china dish. In his ornate teapot of solid beaten gold, the amber leaves awaited the cascade of boiling water. In the corner, a vast square screen flickered and snapped into dazzling life.

  The picture of a well-appointed drawing room, such as one would expect to find in any civilised country house, swam into sharp focus. The room seemed to be deserted. Mr Porteous flinched as the kettle began its shrill, rising whistle. With a tut-tut of annoyance at the interruption, he silenced the shrill noise and prepared his afternoon tea, keeping an avid eye on the large screen as he poured the boiling water. Despite his gathering excitement, he didn’t spill a single drop.

  The picture blinked with a zigzag of time-lapse distortion. It returned, now showing the capacious room filling up as a file of nubile girls entered, heads bowed, hands abjectly folded behind their backs. Mr Porteous took an eclair between his trembling fingers and raised it to his mouth, guiding it blindly to the expectant, wet lips. Precise, rat-like teeth sank into it. The movement was clinical. His jaws worked mechanically. Mouth distended with the chocolate eclair, his bulging eye fell onto his leather topped desk. Good. He nodded with satisfaction. In his wire tray, seven dossiers lay waiting for his careful perusal. In each dossier were reports from chauffeurs, housekeepers, under-gardeners and maids. His twitching web of domestic spies. Spies, in his pay, all working in the houses of the rich and influential, who could not afford their private problems to go public. Problems that needed to be dealt with in secrecy.

  On the screen, a rather promising young beauty was being singled out and orde
red to prepare for some sort of ceremony. Mr Porteous kept the volume mute. He knew what the ceremony was and what it entailed. He swallowed his eclair and sipped his tea. Weak. Heavily sugared. Perfect. Yes.

  Seven dossiers. From seven households in each of which a crisis was unfolding. A crisis involving a rebellious girl. Porteous was extremely careful when targeting his potential prey. They had to be wealthy — preferably in the public eye — and currently blighted by the antics of naughty nubiles. Daughters, nieces or wards. Shoplifting, unsuitable boyfriends. A record of expulsions, perhaps.

  On the screen, he watched as the beautiful girl knelt awkwardly within the cruel confines of a large wooden chair. Her bottom, naked, was caught by the camera in a lingering big close-up. A superb shot, he nodded. A clever touch. Indeed, perhaps a bonus for the eyes and hands behind the hidden lens, he thought. He swallowed the second bulging eclair greedily and noisily sipped his tea.

  A trembling finger pushed the remote control. The sound welled up. Crack. Crack. Porteous giggled his delight, his eyes hard and glinting in their mesmeric gaze. Damn, he whispered. That should have been a tracking shot. A pan, at least, he mused with the annoyance of the feverish amateur with professional pretensions. He was instantly placated by a big close up of the beautiful buttocks bouncing under the impact of the punishment they were receiving and undoubtedly suffering. The reddening blotches attested to the suffering, as did the pitiful squeals. Porteous licked his cream-sweetened lips.

  Much better, he nodded slowly. And the soundtrack delighted him. His flabby fingers drummed the leather desk top, counting out the merciless strokes. Yes. Again. He nodded. His fat finger stabbed the pause button. Hold. He felt his excitement slipping ahead of him too quickly. His throat tightened and the blood at his temples pounded. He must regain control. Savour every sweet moment. Control it all. Yes. He sipped his tea.