Mr. Moffat

Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

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Mr. Moffat

(****, M/fff, Severe, Schoolgirl, severe)

Teenage girls suffer at the hands of their most hated teacher. (Approximately 2,369 words. Originally published 1998-05.)

Mr. Moffat's history class was the worst. If someone wanted to make sex, money, and free ice cream seem boring, he'd just have to enlist Mr. Moffat. The man talks in a monotone even when recounting the exciting climax of a terrible battle. Us girls are always giggling at what sex with him would be like.

"I'd probably fall asleep before he got his pants off," laughed Sarah, my best friend.

"I can just imagine him lecturing his wife on how to do it. 'Now this is called a "penis" and it goes in here.'" That came from Brenda, the third in our trio, a pretty blond who's had more than her share of run-ins with the dreadful Moffat.

"I wonder if he gives her the cane when she comes two seconds behind schedule," I asked.

"I'm sure," giggled Sarah.

We all laughed, but it was uneasy humor. We joked about the man but in truth we all feared him and dreaded his class. His strict methods worked, however. Despite his boring approach to everything, everyone knew history inside and out when they completed his course, and the administration thought he was a genius teacher. The reasons for his success had nothing to do with his teaching methods, however. No, we were all so terrified of his paddle and cane we worked far more diligently on his coursework than any of our other classes. In Mr. Moffat's class, failing a quiz was a canable offense, and we don't even want to talk about tests.

The worst day in my whole life occurred in Mr. Moffat's class. Brenda, Sarah, and I had studied all weekend for a quiz Mr. Moffat had warned us about. He'd assigned two chapters in our history books, which we nearly committed to memory. There was no way we wanted to start the week off with a stiff caning.

Unfortunately, our efforts proved futile.

The first thing that happened was I cut my finger on a bottle-cap during lunch and had to visit the school nurse for a bandage. Sarah and Brenda walked me there, and hurried off to class. Mr. Moffat is particularly strict on tardiness, especially the period right after lunch. He assumes if we aren't there we must have been doing something forbidden, and it's six with the paddle for every minute late.

Apparently Brenda and Sarah were both a few seconds late, and though they tried to explain they had been assisting me, Mr. Moffat refused to accept their excuse. He paddled them soundly and made them stand in opposite corners. When I came in, about five minutes after the bell rang, I saw them there and felt terribly guilty. I gave Mr. Moffat my note from the nurse and started to go to my seat.

"Just a moment, young lady. This note is marked with the time of 12:32. It is now 12:36. Are you telling me it takes four minutes for you to come to class?"

"I came straight here, Mr. Moffat. I don't know how long it took."

"It shouldn't take more than a minute to get here, but I'll be generous and say two minutes. That still leaves two minutes unaccounted for. Did you stop at the restroom for a cigarette?"

"Oh, no sir. Absolutely not. I came straight here." Mr. Moffat has a thing about smoking. He canes several girls a week for smoking, though no one has ever been able to explain how he knows who's been doing it.

"Hmmmppfff," muttered the teacher. "A likely story. I'm putting you down as two minutes late, miss, and let this be a lesson to you!"

"But sir!"

Mr. Moffat's owlish eyes rotated to face me, round bowls of expressionless black. There was no reasoning with him. Most likely Nurse Kelly had written down an inaccurate time, but that didn't do me much good now. I was about to get my bottom warmed good. If I'd known how good, I'd have run for the door!

Mr. Moffat was pointing at the wall and with a heavy sigh I walked over and lifted the huge paddle off the hook. The paddle is very long, nearly two feet if you include the handle. It's made of oak or some heavy wood, and there are about two dozen holes drilled in it to make the board swing faster. Mr. Moffat much prefers the cane, but he can't cane us for every minor offense. So he always paddles for the first two offenses, unless the crime is a canable one. Subsequent punishments are always with the cane.

I gave the paddle to the teacher and bent over and grabbed my ankles. I kept my legs wide apart so I wouldn't fall over, and prayed I could hold position until he'd finished. A dozen strokes wasn't major, but it wasn't minor, either, not with Mr. Moffat swinging the board.

Fortunately, since this was my first offense of the afternoon I got to keep my knickers on. Mr. Moffat flipped up my skirt so that only my thin cotton panties protected me from the fierce paddle. I held my breath and waited.

There was a long pause and then suddenly my ass exploded. I rocked and gritted my teeth, trying to control the ravaging pain that was pulsing through my ass. Again the paddle came down, and then again. There was about ten seconds space between each blow, which seemed to vanish in about three seconds of haze. By the time I'd come to my senses after a swat he'd give me another, and it was all I could do not to scream and beg for him to stop.

Finally it was over, twelve grueling spanks across my bum. I stood stiffly and after thanking him, carried the paddle and put it on the hook. Since the corners were taken, I went to the front of the class and stood with my hands behind my head and my nose to the blackboard. Mr. Moffat ignored me and began with the day's lesson.

As I stood there, my bottom tingling and burning, I heard Mr. Moffat mention the quiz on chapter 17. My blood ran cold. Brenda and Sarah and I had spent the weekend studying chapters 15 and 16. When did he assign 17? We hadn't even read 17!

Dread began to build in my belly. When it was time for the quiz, Mr. Moffat had the three of us take our seats, which we did eagerly, though a little gingerly. He calmly passed out the quiz which I saw covered chapters 16 and 17, with most of the emphasis on the latter. Shit! I was in for it now. I glanced at Sarah and she looked as mortified as I felt.

Fifteen minutes later we exchanged papers and began to grade them, Mr. Moffat going over each answer carefully. I almost began to cry when I saw my score--a 45%. I was doomed. Anything below fifty percent was a caning offense. Poor scores met only with the paddle, which was what I'd been hoping for. No such luck for me!

Mr. Moffat walked up and down the rows of desks collecting papers and clucking his tongue. He kept a number of sheets aside and when he had everyone's, he began to call out names.

"Amy, Sarah, Alison, Jane, and Monica, please come to the front of the room," he commanded. These were the girls who'd scored less than seventy percent.

Jane and Monica each got six with the ruler on the palm of their choice, but the other three, including poor Sarah, had to bend over for the paddle. Since Sarah had already been paddled once, her knickers came down. The three girls stood bent over, waiting. Mr. Moffat approached Amy first. Apparently her score wasn't too bad, because he only gave her four swats. Sarah had to take eight, however, and Alison received a full dozen.

"Return to your seats, ladies. Now Wendy, Brenda, and Julie, please come to the front."

Slowly I got to my feet and walked forward, grateful Brenda was with me, but sorry for what she was about to endure. Wendy was a bratty girl I didn't care much for. Always a troublemaker, she felt the cane often, but even she seemed annoyed at getting it today.

"You three girls ought to be ashamed of yourselves! Your scores are horrible. Obviously, you did not study the material assigned at all. Bend over, all three. I'm going to thrash you soundly. Brenda and Julie--knickers down."

Inwardly, I groaned, but obeyed. The cane really didn't hurt that much more on the bare, but psychologically it seemed twice as bad. Mr. Moffat preferred it, of course, as he said it enabled him to see his target and the results of his efforts better.

Wendy took her eight strokes stoically, without uttering more than a loud moan or two. I was a different matter. Perhaps my bottom was already too sore. I was howling by the fourth stroke, and the fifth and sixth had me sobbing. The seventh caught me at an angle, the tip burying into my right thigh. The pain was startling, and before I'd realized I had raised myself upright and was dancing at little jig with my hands on my bum.

"Get back in position!" roared Mr. Moffat. "Just for that, we shall resume your punishment from the beginning!"

I moaned desperately, pleading for mercy, but there was none to be found. Somehow I managed to stay down for eight more strokes, several full across my thighs.

Feeling mortally wounded, I made my way back to my seat. Sitting was not easily accomplished, but nothing's easy in Mr. Moffat's class.

It was then Mr. Moffat asked everyone to hand in their homework assignments. I felt like I'd been stabbed in the belly! Was I living in the Twilight Zone? What homework was he talking about?

My glance at Brenda and Sarah told me that they, too, were clueless. Sarah, perhaps braver, being the less punished of us three, put up her hand.


"Sir, what homework did you assign?"

His glare could have cut glass. "I take it then, that you did not complete the assignment?"

"Uh, no, sir. I knew nothing about it."

Mr. Moffat cleared his throat noisily and turned to the rest of the class. "Did anyone else fail to complete the assignment?"

Several hands were nervously raised, mine and Brenda's among them.

"It seems you girls do not use your ears properly. On Friday, did I not ask everyone to write a brief report, entirely from memory, on what you knew about the Spanish Armada?"

"But sir, we were doing that in class!" protested Sarah bravely.

"And when we ran out of time to finish, did I not indicate that you were to complete it on your own time?"

Sarah's face had gone rather pale, and I suppose mine was similar. I had a growing suspicion that Mr. Moffat was correct. The last few seconds of class of Friday, after the bell had interrupted us, had been rather chaotic as he quickly assigned us the reading material and warned us about the quiz. The only thought that had registered in my head, and obviously that of my two friends, had been the terror of the upcoming quiz. I had just assumed that we'd finish the Armada paper in class on Monday. Obviously an assumption I'd regret.

Failing to complete an assignment is a serious crime in Mr. Moffat's class. Nine girls with butterflies in their bellies walked up to Mr. Moffat's desk to await the cane. Several, including Sarah, Brenda, and myself, were to be caned without knickers. Brenda and I, especially, were dismayed at the thought of further punishment, but what could we do? We stood in line at the end and awaited our fate.

The first two girls were quiet, shy ones who rarely were spanked. They made a big fuss over the whole thing, one of them getting up twice in the middle and having to take those strokes over again. She must have taken close to sixteen before she was sent to the blackboard to stand holding her skirt up so we could see her caned panties.

Wendy, the girl caned earlier with me, was next. I expected her to react much more for the second set, but she was remarkably calm. That alone made me very nervous.

A couple other girls took theirs, and then Sarah stepped forward. She had to take down her knickers, revealing an already-red bottom. She took her strokes nicely, though, gritting her teeth and keeping very still. The acid in my belly was growing.

Brenda had an extremely difficult time with hers. The strokes crossed previous stripes and she sobbed loudly, but kept position.

I was next. As I bent over all I could think about was how much I hated Mr. Moffat, his stupid rules, and that dreadful cane. He must have heard my thoughts because every stroke was twice as hard as my earlier caning. He really dug the tip of the cane deep into my thigh on the third one, which caused me to let go of my ankles. I immediately grabbed them again, thinking that surely that wouldn't count as rising as I hadn't stood up, but I wasn't taking into account that this was Mr. Moffat I was dealing with. Sure enough, he started the count over again at one. That broke me. I was sobbing like a baby before he was halfway done. Somehow I took everything, though I swore I was half dead.

When I stood up my head was heavy and ringing, and I could scarcely walk to the blackboard to stand, holding up my skirt so everyone could see my thrashed bottom.

Five minutes later the bell rang and we were dismissed. As I was delicately tugging my panties over my sore tush I heard Mr. Moffat remind everyone that there'd be another quiz tomorrow, this time on Chapters 17 and 18.

I immediately vowed to memorize the entire book--no way I was going to chance another caning tomorrow!

The End