Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!Copyright 1985-2016 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
(*****, M/F, Severe, implied schoologirl caning)
A retired headmaster reflects on canings past and present. (Approximately 4,983 words. Originally published 2004-01.)
Some have wondered why I never got married. Most assumed I was married to my job, and while it is true I was a dedicated teacher and schoolmaster for nearly forty years, the reality was that I feared I'd fail at settling with one woman. You see, I was accustomed to being around hundreds of attractive, youthful girls -- young ladies blossoming into womanhood as I watched. Most of them feared or adored me, and I adored every one of them. How could a wife compete with that?
Ah, there's nothing that matches the schoolgirl. She's young and naive, terrified and excited, innocent yet daring. She's usually prettier than she knows, and she hasn't had the chance to develop the bad habits and hangups that so often encumber adults. A schoolgirl is a cleaner, rawer, more pure form of woman.
As a headmaster for over twenty years, I learned a great deal about schoolgirls. There's something to be said for being in a position of absolute power: no girl could resist me forever. A few tried. All failed.
I ruled with a rattan rod, and any girl that didn't follow the rules quickly discovered the pain of the cane.
Oh the cane! There's nothing like the threat of the cane to bring out a girl's true character. With the rattan rod looming on the table in front of her, a schoolgirl's confession pours from her like wine from a bottle.
It was during thrashings that I learned to love the young ladies. Seeing them step timidly into my office, with bloodless faces and sweaty palms, all meek and nerves, was heaven on earth. A girl like the stunning Monique, who could take a half-dozen of my best without batting an eye, aroused my passions something fierce.
Caning is a form of conversation. Like an ancient courting ritual or an appearance before a judge, it's a formal language full of subtle inferences and innuendos.
First there's the communication that a caning is about to take place. This happens when the schoolmaster (me), makes it clear, through words, tone of voice, or gesture (such as placing the rod on the table in plain view), that a caning will be administered. The student acknowledges this with a secret expression that reveals her terror while on the surface she is neutral and unperturbed.
Every girl has her own way of doing this, and one of my delightful challenges was trying to detect it. I remember a pretty dark-haired girl named Donna who would give a quick grimmace as though she'd stepped on a tack, followed by a stiffening of the shoulders and a resolution to endure the ordeal with the minimum of fuss. Another girl, Charlotte, would flutter her eyes briefly as though blinking back tears. I once had an Amy whose ears would redden.
But the best, in my opinion, was sweet Monique. She and I had a unique relationship. It wasn't many years ago. She was a beautiful girl, tall and lanky, who enjoyed athletics, mischief, and boys. I wouldn't call her a troublemaker, exactly, but if there was trouble about she always seemed to be in the middle of it. Monique was tough and could handle a stiff caning like no girl I'd known: she seemed to get a charge out of it, in fact, eyes shining brilliantly at me afterward as she thanked me for disciplining her.
We never talked openly, of course, but gradually developed our own system of coded conversation. This was the ideal of caning conversation.
It began one day when Monique and another girl, Jessica, were sent to my office for fighting. They'd gotten into an altercation that had culminated in the throwing of erasers from the chalkboard. Both arrived covered with chalk dust, somber in the knowledge that they wouldn't escape a severe thrashing for such an obvious offense.
As I scolded and reprimanded them, I noticed the chalk dust on Monique's uniform, particularly blotches of white powder across the seat of her dark gray skirt. For some reason this untidiness irritated me and I remarked, "I'll soon dust off that uniform, young lady!"
Monique's response was a pleasant, "Yes sir, thank you sir."
After that, this phrase became our code for caning. When she'd show up at my office she might humbly say, "I'm afraid my uniform is dusty, sir." Or, if I had decided a caning was due, I might say something like, "Miss Monique, your uniform needs dusting."
I enjoyed such delicious conversation with a few girls over the years, but Monique was certainly a special one.
After agreeing that a caning was imminent, there's a bit of banter. This is where I, the schoolmaster, torment the student with the knowledge of the pain to come. The goal here to handle the procedure speedily, but not hastily, and to give the child an opportunity to anticipate and dread the upcoming punishment. A punishment without dreadful anticipation would be like going to sleep on New Year's Day and awaking to find it's Christmas morning; without the expectation, the cane loses a bit of its bite.
So I drag out the punishment. I remind the student of their crime, scold them vehemently. If appropriate, I bring up the student's past indiscretions and put the latest in contrast, which serves as an excellent memory stimulant and the schoolgirl shudders as she reflects on how much the "six of the best" earned last semester stung her poor bottom.
If a student has no comparitive history, I may reveal a famous historical case (without detailing real names, of course). Something like this:
"Hmmm. You're a very naughty lass! Pinching from the kitchen is strictly forbidden and I'm sure you'll appreciate the very sharp lesson you're about to endure. Why, the last time a student did that was in '67. Sally F., yes that was her. I gave her a baker's dozen. Striped her raw. She could scarcely walk when I'd finished with her. Spent a week hobbling awkwardly from class to class, and no doubt earned a slippering or two for tardiness. Ah, that was a good lesson, a good lesson indeed. She never did pinch another biscuit, that was for certain!"
The student, of course, wants very much to avoid the punishment somehow, to plead and beg, to run away, to cry, to pee, but none of those things are permitted within the caning conversation. Her role is to sit or stand calmly, and nervously wait for the time I specify.
Usually at this point I make a production out of producing the logbook and putting down the girl's name, class, offense, and other details. I may pause and question her suddenly, as though I'm uncertain about something ("That was _three_ sweets you snatched, correct?").
Then, when the girl thinks I'm _finally_ going to get around to thrashing her, I delay it a few more minutes. I step out for a moment to speak with my secretary, visit the loo, refresh my cup of tea, or complete some urgent paperwork.
Finally, it is time. I select the cane, if I haven't already, and without a word from me (for this is part of the secret communication), the girl gets into position. Usually this is bent across the arm of the settee with her arms resting on the seat. I raise her skirt, exposing her knickers, and proceed to thrash her soundly.
As a schoolmaster I had an imposing reputation and that was primarily due to the way I wielded the rod. I caned hard. There are some who go soft on schoolgirls, assuming that they are the weaker sex (a falsehood if there ever was one). I never believed that and never treated any girl different from a lad. If a thrashing was merited, a thrashing was delivered, and every stroke, from the first to the last, was just as hard as I could make it.
There's an art to thrashing soundly, and students who are conissairs know and appreciate a headmaster who can cane them thoroughly. I've had many a lad or young lady tell me either at the time or even long after, how much they benefitted by my stern correction. So many schoolmasters fall short of their duty and their charges never fail to detect and exploit this weakness, so the thrashing, even it's supposedly a severe one for a serious offense, is a mere tap on the wrist in the eyes of the student, who thinks he or she's gotten away with it.
None of the students I ever caned ever felt they'd gotten away with anything, I assure you. Even four strokes of my cane had the toughest lad or lass wishing they were some place else.
The first stroke is always the beginning of the serious point of conversation. Prior to that it's a mere game of jest and inuendo, but with that first stroke administered and hot pain coursing through the child's cheeks, it's suddenly extremely real.
Of course, I do most of the "talking" in this conversation, administering the prescribed number of strokes with pithy comments and criticisms, while the student merely accepts the rebuke with humble acceptance. However, the student does communicate, both through posture and voice. A properly taken caning is accepted with quiet courage and knowledge that the correction is for the child's own good. The base posture, arched back, outthrust buttocks, and mild gasps or occasional squeals of pain are signs that the caning is effective. An ideal schoolgirl like Monique takes her caning in silence, but not impassively: she writhes slightly, strains to hold her position, her voice cracks if asked to call out the strokes, and she makes occasional sighs or grunts to let me know that a stroke was particularly effective.
Finally, when the caning is over, the student acknowledges her error by thanking the schoolmaster for the discipline and departing with as much dignity as she can muster.
It's a wonderful ritual. In reality discipline is a horrible thing -- humiliation; raw, angry pain; violent strokes from a rod -- yet it is masked with ritual and formal language and the strictly platonic relationship of headmaster to student. The formality gives us a way to talk and yet not talk about these dark things.
This was never more clear to me than last March. I was in my garden, attempting to resurrect it after the winter thaw and prepare it for a spring planting, when my gate opened and in stepped the most beautiful woman.
She was tall and slender, perhaps a little too slender, the way these modern girls are. She was young -- not yet thirty by my estimation -- and her face handsome and clear. I frowned when I took in her attire, for she was dressed in a fashion that clashed with my own sense of respectability. She wore a strapless top, brown in color, that just covered the mounds of her breasts. It was tight, emphasizing her figure, especially the narrowness of her waist and the jut of her breasts.
But the pants! Oh, horrors! I come from a generation of skirts and dresses, where ladies do not wear slacks. This girl wore tan pants of the tightest variety known. Her legs were half a mile long, elegantly tailored. The slacks left nothing to the imagination. When the woman turned to close the gate behind her, I could clearly see more of her buttocks than I'd ever seen in the full knickers of any of my students. The pants clung so tight every curve and crevice was visible as though the pants were the flesh itself.
As much as the formal part of me dislikes seeing a woman in pants, I must admit that the male part of me found this unexpected arrival most arousing. Not only was the woman extremely attractive, but the part of a woman that most interests me, the round buttocks, were most generously presented. It had been several years since my retirement and I missed the youthful flesh I was used to seeing in quantity on a daily basis, and so my irritation melted away and I stood up to meet this pretty young lady with a pleasant attitude and encourage her to stay in my view as long as possible.
The girl spotted me when I stood and quickly made her way to me. As she drew closer, I realized my original assessment of her beauty had been drastically undervalued: this girl was positively stunning.
Her face was lit up with a huge friendly smile, and my astonishment could not have been greater when she cried, "Headmaster Duley!"
I stared, trying to decide if I could somehow know this beauty, but no name came to mind. "Yes?" I said hesitantly.
"You don't remember me, do you," she laughed gaily. She was right in front of me now, breasts bobbing, dangerously threatening to pop out of her strapless top. Before I could move she embraced me, kissing me on each cheek, eyes gleaming with amusement at my obvious puzzlement.
"Oh, it's so good to see you, Headmaster. My husband and I recently moved here and I'd heard you'd retired. I've thought and thought about looking you up, and today was just such a pleasant day, I decided to stop by and say hello." Her eyes glowed with pleasure. "Still don't know who I am?"
"A former student, obviously," I stammered, "but I have no idea who. Why you've turned into such a beautiful woman -- surely I never had you in my charge!"
The eyes sparkled and suddenly the girl turned, arched her back and thrust out her bottom at me, peering over her shoulder. "Oh dear, I think I've gotten my seat dirty. Perhaps I need help dusting it?
I think, for a moment, my heart really did stop. "Monique," I breathed. "It cannot be!"
She laughed. "In the flesh."
Almost immediately I began to see the resemblance. The hair was shorter, the face more mature, the body more voluptuous, if that was possible. The bottom I thought I'd remembered so well, now appeared even more magnificent and attractive than it had ever been as a student.
"It is you!"
"It is. You are doing well? Retirement agrees with you?"
"Oh, well, I can't complain. Life's a little slower, quieter these days."
"No naughty girls being sent to you any more, however."
"True." I wondered if my voice sounded as wistful as I felt.
We chatted for a quarter of an hour, and then I came to my senses and invited Monique in for a cup of tea. She accepted graciously, and I learned all about her new life while I prepared it. She'd been married two years, no children as of yet. "Michael wants to wait a few years," she told me.
All during our talk I couldn't get over how stunning she was. Her clothes weren't just tight and sexy, they were part of her identity. Monique was never shy, never reserved. She had a good body and it was natural for her to show it off. Why not? The more we spoke the more I saw the young mischievious Monique in her.
After maybe an hour, our conversation lulled. We'd covered all the natural topics, and it was then I realized the shallowness of the teacher-student relationship. I'd only seen one side of her growing up. In many ways I didn't know her very well at all. What did we have in common, her and I? It was nice she'd come to visit, but that was all that could happen between us.
Monique had fallen silent also, perhaps thinking the same things I was. She seemed nervous, or hesitant in some way, which puzzled me, for she was never reluctant to speak.
"Is something on your mind?" I asked suddenly. "You can be frank with me."
She was standing near the mantle of my fireplace admiring a vase I had there. For a moment there was an awkward silence. Then she turned and her eyes met mine. She didn't waver.
"My pants really are dirty," she said slowly. Her hand went behind and brushed her bottom in an obvious manner.
The air was rich with electricity. "Perhaps I, er... I could help dust them for you," I whispered, scarcely daring to believe I was hearing what I was hearing.
Could I be misunderstanding? Time to find out! "Like when you were in school?"
"Yes," she said, and I knew why she'd come.
"It's been a long time," I said carefully. "The process might take longer than when you were a child. There's more, uh, area to clean."
She laughed. "That's to be expected. I'm twenty-nine."
"No special treatment. It will be just like always."
"Then follow me to my den." I turned and walked away, hoping she would follow, but afraid to look. When I arrived in my den, she was right behind me.
As part of my retirement, I'd taken a couple of my favorite school canes. I just couldn't bear to abandon them. They'd been too much a part of my life for too many years. They were in a cabinet and I'd kept them oiled and polished and ready for use, though it had been years since they'd threatened a bottom.
I watched Monique's face as I drew out the canes. She was impassive, exactly as I remembered. She always took her canings so well. I laid the canes on my desk. She was already moving to the sofa, studing how she could lay across the arm. Her ass bulged up as she stretched out, giving me the best target I could ask for.
"Not wearing your school uniform is strictly against the rules," I scolded. "Not to mention this ridiculously revealing outfit you've selected. I shall thrash you most soundly, Miss Monique."
"Yes sir." Her voice was calm, unflappable, but was there a hint of nervousness?
"A proper girl wears a dress or a skirt, young lady. If I see you in these dreadful pants again I shall stripe your _bare_ bottom, is that understood?"
Gulp. "Yes sir."
"Now I am going to give you a dozen of my hardest. I think you'll find that though I'm older, I haven't lost my strength. I can still make six feel like eight from anyone else!"
Monique shifted, waggling her bum from side to side.
Time to draw it out a little more, I decided. "You will take these silently and without moving from position. You will count each stroke and thank me for it."
"Yes sir," breathed Monique, and I sensed thrill and fear in her voice, along with a touch of satisfaction. She knew I wouldn't go easy on her, that I'd make this as real and as painful as possible, and that excited and terrified her.
"I'd better record this in my punishment log," I said suddenly. I went to my desk and found a blank notebook. "Name?"
"Monique Davenport," came the answer. I wrote it down.
"Failure to wear school uniform."
There was a pause. "Inappropriate attire for school, sir."
"Very good. I believe I said twelve strokes?"
"I think we'd better make that a baker's dozen, don't you think?"
Was there hesitation?
"Yes sir." The voice was defeated, crushed. I put down my pen and stood, taking up a long cane. She watched me with her peripheral vision.
"How long since your last thrashing, Miss Monique?"
"Eleven years, sir."
"You were eighteen?"
"And how did you find that caning?"
"Severe, sir, most severe."
"Describe it to me. In detail." I lay the tip of the cane against her bottom, running it along the smooth surface, tracing the elegant curve. Monique gave a tiny gasp and wiggled nervously.
"It was near the end of the term, sir. Only a few days left. I figured no one would notice if I had a quick smoke in the loo. But you caught me coming out. You said you smelled smoke on my breath though I swore I hadn't smoked. You ordered me to your office. You thrashed me soundly, a dozen of the best. Every stroke felt like you had cut me in two. I thought my bum would never heal. The weals lasted for weeks."
"And after the twelve?"
"You had me bend over for six more... for lying."
"Did you deserve it?"
A pause. "Yes sir."
"You had lied about smoking, then."
I tapped the cane lightly against her bottom. "So you know the penalty for lying."
"You wouldn't lie to me now."
The cane rubbed the sleek material of her slacks. "Is this caning today going to hurt, Monique?"
"Do you deserve every stroke you'll receive today?"
"How long have you been waiting for this, Monique?"
"Eleven years, sir."
Me too, I thought, but I didn't say anything. For a long moment I stood watching her, admiring the gorgeous curve of her ass. Then I raised the cane and whipped it down across the cheeks as hard as I could.
The crack was deafening, and brought on a flashback of memories. How many times had I heard that lovely sound over the years? How many schoolgirls had I watched wince and writhe after a stroke of rattan?
Monique was certainly no schoolgirl: her womanly bottom quivered and bounced, the thin slacks offering her almost no protection at all. "One, thank you sir."
I waited a good thirty seconds before proceeding with the second stroke. It was just as vicious, almost in the same place as the first. I like my first three to land as a group.
"Ah! Two sir. Thank you."
The third was between the first and second, at the highest point of her bottom. I thrilled as the rod crushed the fleshy mound, collapsing it briefly before rebounding into perfect roundness.
Monique's eyes were tightly clamped and she didn't speak for several long seconds. Finally she whispered "three" and "thank you, sir."
I allowed a minute to pass before continuing. This was partly a mercy, for it gave her time to regroup, but partly for my own pleasure, to prolong the experience. I used the time to admire and study her lovely rear end, the cheeks wobbling nervously as I put my head near her arse.
To my astonishment I could see the ridges of the weals forming from the first three strokes! The marks were faint, mere bumps in the smooth tan of the pants, but they were there. The pants were so tight that even the swollen welts left by the cane were visible! Surely that could only mean one thing.
I gripped the cane tighter and sternly said, "Miss Monique, I think you have neglected to wear knickers!"
"Yes sir," came the voice weakly, strangely faint.
"That is extremely naughty of you. Why did you do such a thing?"
"It's the fashion, sir. Underwear is visible with these pants."
"No brassire, no knickers. You are a modern woman."
There was no response; none was required. I knew my task: to give this bottom a thrashing to remember!
Swish... CRACK! snapped the cane. The buttocks dented, bounced, writhed. A tear seeped from the clenched eyes of the young lady. "Four," she panted. "Thank you sir."
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! These were low, across the base of her buttocks, where the flesh it the plumpest... and most tender.
For the eighth, I put it at an angle, crossing the previous weals. Her eyes popped open and a little hiss escaped her lips. She wiggled her bottom frantically for a few seconds. "Eight, sir. Thank you."
Nine and ten were also angled, and while Monique lay panting, writhing slightly as she gasped for oxygen, I ran the tip of the cane along her buttocks. The smooth flesh was now bumpy with welts. At the points where strokes crossed each other, the "x" swelled to fantastic heights and I could even see the darkness of the bruised flesh.
Though I didn't like admitting, I was growing tired. Caning takes a lot out of you! For number eleven, I took a running start and really laid it down hard. The crack echoed around the room like a gunshot, and Monique yelped out loud. She immediately bit her lip, but the damage was done.
"Silence!" I commanded. "That stroke will not count and I'm adding an extra for impertinence."
"Yes sir," she said weakly.
I took my run again and let the rod fly. It snapped down full across the middle of her bum, flattening it completely for a second. Monique didn't cry out, but her eyes bulged and one leg kicked in a violent spasm.
"Eleven, sir. Thank you sir."
Twelve was my hardest yet, and it took her a full thirty seconds before she could deliver the count. That was fine with me: I wanted this to never end.
For thirteen, I reversed positions, running at her from the other side. My momentum meant the stroke was still a fearsome one, even if it was delivered with a weaker backhand. The benefit of this was that the tip of the cane impacted on her left cheek, surely digging a deep gouge in the round flesh. Her right cheek would still suffer the more of the two, but at least a few cuts on the left to even things out wouldn't hurt.
"F-fourteen," moaned Monique after the next. "T-thaaankuuu sir."
I stood and studied her ass. I wished very much to see it bare, but dare I ask for such a favor?
"You may get up," I said after a few minutes of watching her squirm.
Moaning and moving stiffly, she got to her feet. Her hands inched toward her backside, but she pressed them against the sides of her legs, too wise to make the mistake of touching her bottom.
"I think a little corner time would be appropriate, don't you Miss Monique?"
She turned to face me, face moist with tears and sweat, eyes glowing.
"Perhaps without your inappropriate attire?"
She resisted a smile. "Yes sir," she said, and went to the corner. Once there she undid the button at the front of her pants and turning away from me, began to carefully slip off the tight slacks. They must have been practically welded on, for it took an eternity.
Finally, the pants began a downward decent. Monique had to wiggle her hips back and forth to get the slacks off. First the swell of the upper slopes of her buttocks were visible, then the tip of the crack. Gradually more and more ass came into view, and I savored the moment the way a man slowly eats his last meal.
Her ass was incredible. She had gorgeous wide hips that gave her butt a round ball-like appearance. The cleft was deep, the twin cheeks plump and well-defined. But most beautiful of all, at least to me, was that her fair skin was as red as a cherry and crisscrossed with over a dozen thick weals. These ranged from scarlet to dark purple. The latter occurred when two or more welts overlapped or the tip had sunk in deeply; the damage to the skin considerable. It was breathtaking.
"You are so lovely," I sighed, forgetting my role for a moment. In truth this was the first time I'd ever been able to openly admire the physique of one of my charges. Not that Monique was still in my care, but I still thought of her as my student.
Looking at her, there was something I wanted more than anything, something I'd never been able to do. "Monique," I said softly, "would you mind if I... examined your buttocks?"
She giggled. "Examine away, sir."
I knelt before that splendid ass, hands on Monique's strong thighs, and put my face close to the fascinatingly battered flesh. For a long minute I studied the smooth skin marked with the rod's cruel imprint. I admired the way the welts rose looking almost juicy in their freshness. I stared deep into the mysteries of the dark divide that split the two hemispheres, the cheeks looking deliciously round and plump.
Then my hands slid upward and I began to caress those amazing curves. For the first time in my career I dared lift the weight of a girl's bottoms, enjoying the heat of the punished cheeks radiating through my palms. The thick weals felt like knotted ropes across her skin except they were steaming with heat. I squeezed and kneaded the heavy flesh, luxuriating in the dozens of pleasurable sensations coursing through my body.
Monique groaned, for her bottom was still respectively tender, though my touch probably felt good as well as painful. I released her bum from my grip with a deep sigh.
She glanced at me over her shoulder, her pretty eyes glistening with tears. "Thank you sir," she breathed.
"No, thank _you_," I said, and with both grinned. After a few seconds, I suddenly felt awkward, Monique standing there with her bare arse on display. I coughed. "Hem. I think your bottom is dusted off now."
"Yes sir, I believe it is." She carefully slid the tight slacks back up, covering her backside. My cock twitched violently as I saw the raised weals were clearly visible through the cloth.
Monique turned, gave me a tender, gentle kiss on the cheek, and was gone. The last thing I remember was that beautiful bottom rolling from side to side as she gingerly made her way along the garden path and out the gate.
But her final words echoed in my head and haunted my dreams for months. "No doubt I'll get my bum dirty again, sir. I trust you'll be available for dusting service?"