The Schoolroom

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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.

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The Schoolroom

(*****, M/FFMM, Severe, Semi-public school discipline)

A couple signs up for an unusual 'school' session. (Approximately 3,247 words. Originally published 1999-09.)

The man was tall and lean, with a hard face completely constructed of sharp angles. His chin was a pointed triangle covered with a well-groomed goatee, his cheekbones high and distinct, and his eyes fierce points of black coal.

He was dressed in black, like a funeral director. I thought he was the Grim Reaper himself. He marched in my direction. I couldn't help but tremble, though I knew it was Kim he was after.

He stopped just passed me and glared at the quivering blonde girl who sat at the desk behind me. She stood awkwardly, a sullen expression of defiance on her face. I was amazed at her bravery. How could she be so calm?

"I will ask one more time," roared the teacher, "did you finish your assignment?"

I saw Kim falter slightly, as though she was regretting whatever got her into this position, but then her face hardened. "No, sir, I did not complete the assignment." She dropped her chin to her chest and waited for the storm.

The schoolmaster's hard face became iron, blackened with rage. His eyes began to smolder dangerously. He was so close to me I could have reached out and touched him, except I was petrified with fear.

"Front and center!" he snapped brusquely. Then he spun on his heel and marched to the front of the classroom. I watched as a nervous but brave Kim followed.

She was a beautiful woman, I thought. Late twenties, perhaps. Hard to tell since her skin was so smooth and youthful. She looked fit and athletic. Nice clean, friendly face. A bit mousey, sort of the timid secretary type. She was ideal for the schoolgirl outfit she was wearing: white blouse with a black tie, gray pleated skirt, long white socks, and dark pumps; the same thing I wore, only she fit the part better. I looked like an adult playing the child. She _was_ the child.

The schoolmaster retrieved something from his desk and approached the waiting schoolgirl. Kim didn't move as the man carefully lifted her skirt and clipped it to the back of her dress with tiny binder clamps. She now looked ridiculous, her skirt permanently raised, exposing the back of her white panties.

Just as I was beginning to admire the smooth shape of her panty-covered bottom, the teacher did the unthinkable: he grasped the edges of her panties and slowly drew them downward. Kim didn't make a sound or move a muscle.

I had thought Kim looked sexy in her panties, but naked, she took sexy to a whole new level. She was darling. She was a petite girl, but she had impressively wide hips. Her buttocks were surprisingly round and full for such a small girl. They stuck out rather impudently, almost daring anyone to smack them.

I felt myself becoming aroused. I glanced at Greg, but he was fully focused on what was happening at the front of the room. His right hand was busy massaging his crotch through his schoolboy shorts.

"Fetch the tawse, Kim," ordered the schoolmaster, a long, spinely finger pointing to the far side of the room. I followed the finger and saw a piece of heavy black leather hanging from a hook on the wall. It looked deadly: two or three inches wide, maybe twenty inches long, and quite stiff. The final six inches of leather was split into three tails.

Kim began to waddle across the room toward the strap. It was difficult going as her panties were looped around her thighs. She couldn't take large steps, but if she took too short of a step, the panties fell lower. By the time she reached the strap they were around her knees. She stood on tiptoe and took down the leather implement, and began to head back to the stern schoolmaster. I couldn't imagine where she got the courage. I was nearly peeing in my panties just watching!

By the time Kim was back before the schoolmaster, humbly offering the leather tawse on two outstretched palms, her panties had tumbled to her ankles. It was embarrassingly ridiculous. There were a few snickers of amusement from the other students, but a swift rotation of the schoolmaster head, eyes glaring like the sweep of a lighthouse, silenced everyone.

"Kneel on the punishment stool," ordered the man. Kim immediately obeyed.

The punishment stool wasn't really a stool; it was simply a small wooden platform with a padded place for knees and hands on either side of a wooden rest for your belly. It was narrow, forcing knees and hands close together, which caused the buttocks to be thrust outward. Basically Kim's head stuck out at one end and her butt on the other. Quite humiliating.

Fortunately for Kim, the stool was positioned horizontally to the class -- we could see her nervous face and the profile of her bare bottom, but at least for her sake, we weren't privileged with a view from behind. With her bottom splayed out the way it was, I had no doubt she hid no secrets from the schoolmaster, who stood behind her, admiring the graceful curves of her ass.

"Failing to complete an assignment is a serious offense," said the teacher sternly. "Six strokes." Kim shuddered, but otherwise didn't move.

The teacher continued: "Will you tell the class _why_ you didn't finish your assignment?"

Kim's face went pale and she shook her head. "Oh, no, please, sir, don't ask me that!"

"You just earned yourself two extra strokes!" snapped the schoolmaster. "Now answer the question!"

A subdued Kim bowed her head low. Her face flushed with shame, she whispered, "I, uh, I... I was with my boyfriend."

"So, you were too busy having illicit relations to finish your schoolwork."

"Yes, sir," answered Kim miserably.

"Ah, well, then that's an extra six for such a feeble excuse!" Kim groaned at the announcement, her head falling down a bit lower.

"Plus," continued the teacher, "I think I'll write a letter to your father, informing him he'd better keep a closer eye on you."

"Oh no!" gasped Kim. "Please, sir, don't tell my father!"

"Why not?"

"Because... because he'll thrash me, sir."

"Ah... a thrashing at school earns a thrashing at home, is that it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, it's your bed -- you must lie in it."

Kim's face was now rigid with intensity. She craned her head up and back, desperately pleading with the stern man. "Oh, sir... couldn't you, uh, punish me here, now, instead of telling my father?"

Slowly the teacher nodded. "I could."

Kim breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, sir."

"Of course, in my day, a punishment at home was _double_ whatever was received at school."

The blonde girl stiffened at that remark, then seemed to collapse. "Yes, sir."

"So, a double punishment from me after your strapping and I won't tell your father."

"Yes, sir," whispered Kim.

"Very well." The teacher turned and pointed a long finger at Greg. "You: how many strokes is her punishment?"

For a second I thought Greg didn't know; he appeared completely flustered. But then he recovered and grinned: "Six and six plus two extra: that's fourteen, sir."

"Very good. And what's double fourteen?"

"Twenty-eight, sir."

"And fourteen plus twenty-eight?"

"Uh, I, uh, forty... two. Forty-two, sir!"

"A little slow on your math skills, Greg. We'll have to do a drill a bit later."

Greg slumped in his desk, his head dropping. "Yes, sir," he sighed.

The schoolmaster turned back to Kim. "But now we've got a naughty bottom to punish: forty-two strokes, young lady. Are you prepared to accept them like a big girl?"

Kim nodded. "Yes, sir," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Good. Then you will count the strokes."

Before Kim could agree, the schoolmaster swung down the strap with a quick snap of his wrist. I gasped at the severity of the stroke. It slapped across Kim's rump with a loud "WHACK" and I swear I jumped in my seat. Kim's bottom quivered and even from the side I could see a glistening red mark peeking out from the left cheek of her ass.

"One, sir," breathed Kim. I didn't see how she could do it.

CRACK! "Two, sir."

WHACK! "Three, sir."

SMACK! "Four, sir."

THACK! "Fiiiive, sir," squealed the suffering girl.

By this time I saw Kim was sweating a bit, rising on the tips of her fingers and her face showed obvious pain. If she was in this much agony after only five strokes, I thought, how is she going to endure forty-two?

The whipping continued at a steady pace, and soon Kim was gasping at each spank and moaning the count. With each strike she wiggled her bottom frantically. From what I could see, the round ball of her ass was scarlet. I found myself aching to see her buttocks better.

As if in answer to my wish, the schoolmaster did something unexpected: he spun the punishment stool. Apparently the base was mounted on a Lazy Susan-type turntable and he could rotate it at will.

Now all the class could gaze right into the deep cleft between poor Kim's asscheeks. I immediately saw that she was shaven, the lips of her sex exposed and ajar. The once-smooth skin of her buttocks was raw and blistered, covered with dozens of overlapping crimson rectangles. As I watched the schoolmaster continued the punishment, striking Kim's ass and thighs.


"Oh, God, please!" moaned Kim, desperately clenching her cheeks.

"Since you didn't count," murmured the professor -- THWOP! -- "I'll give that one again."

"Ah! Thirty-four! That was thirty-four, sir!"

CRACK! "Thirty-five, sir!"

SMACK! "Thirt-six, sir!"

SPLAT! "Arrggg... thir-thirty-seven, sir!"

On and on it went. I didn't understand how Kim could take it, but I found it fascinating to watch. Her bottom looked hideous; a mass of magenta welts and burgandy bruises. Some of the bruises were growing dark, almost brown. Yet still she knelt obediently, her buttocks thrust out for the leather.

Kim's body shuddered as she sobbed non-stop during the last few blows. Somehow she choked out the count, only earning herself a couple extras. Then the schoolmaster ordered her to stand, presented her with the tawse, and told her to return it to its hook on the wall. The class watched in stunned silence as the girl, walking gingerly, shuffled toward the distant hook.

"Now face the chalkboard, hands on your head!" snapped the schoolmaster. "You can stay there for the rest of class so everyone can admire your smacked bum and be fully aware of the penalty for not completing an assignment!"

* * * * *

"What? Don't tell me you've never been whacked!" gasped Greg, my boyfriend.

I shifted uncomfortably in the car seat. "Not at school," I murmured. "There were rumors that Jauncy Morgan got paddled once, but I figured it was just propaganda to scare us kids."

"Did you get spanked at home?"

I stared out the window, hoping Greg wouldn't see the heat wave passing over my face. I was suddenly very glad it was nighttime. "Uh, yeah, a couple times. When I was very little. I don't really remember."

Could he tell I was lying? I wondered. Could he tell that those spankings had so petrified me I became a perfect little angel, terrified to do anything that might rock the boat and earn me a trip over Daddy's lap?

Greg's face was inscrutable. He seemed to be concentrating on driving, which was a relief. Though I was trying to be polite and cooperative, it was probably obvious this conversation had me flustered. Of all the guys in the world, how had I managed to fall in love with a spanko?

We'd been dating for nearly a year now; our relationship was reaching a new level of intimacy. That's when Greg told me about the Schoolroom.

* * * * *

"Timothy, it is time for your oral report," said the schoolmaster. All eyes rotated to the short blonde college boy sitting at the back of the class. He appeared bewildered.

"Uh, sir? What... what report is that?"

The teacher gave a heavy inconsolable sigh, as though only he knew the burdens of the world his shoulders carried. "I take it, then, you are not prepared?"

The blank look on poor Timothy's face was answer enough. The teacher didn't hesitate: "Fetch me the big paddle."

"Yes, sir." With surprising cooperation, the young man rushed to carry out the schoolmaster's instructions. He found the heavy maple paddle on a hook near the tawse and took it down. With deep reverence he carried it to the teacher.

"Shorts down, son," ordered the man sternly. Blushing and looking away from the class, Timothy obeyed. He was a handsome lad, rather small but decently fit. He didn't seem especially geeky, only quiet and shy. I felt a bit sorry for him as he bent across the teacher's desk, his boxer's tightening across his trim buttocks.

The first half-dozen blows took my breath away. The schoolmaster swung the big paddle with both hands, like a professional baseball player hitting a home run. Timothy grunted with each strike, a profound lament that seemed to come from deep within his soul.

Then the schoolmaster took down Timothy's underwear. The skin on his buttocks was exceedingly pale, but this was overwhelmed by twin blotches of heavy magenta at the center of each cheek. The paddling continued for another dozen swats, by which time there was scarcely any white flesh left -- it looked like Timothy had been severely sunburned.

"Stand up, boy!" roared the teacher. A teary-eyed red-bottomed young man struggled to rise and face his teacher. His face flushed as he turned toward the class, for no one could fail to notice his prominent erection.

"Are you ready to deliver your oral presentation now?"

The boy gulped and nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Then begin."

Timothy bent to try to raise his pants, but the teacher smacked at his fingers with the paddle. "Don't you dare! You will present just as you are!"

Really embarrassed now, Timothy faced the class and began. It was a rambling speech, obviously impromptu, obviously desperate. I can't say I would have done much better. He talked about marketing and advertising, since apparently that was something he knew something about.

"Lacked some focus," commented the schoolmaster when Timothy had finished, "but it will pass."

With tremendous relief Timothy pulled up his pants and rushed to his seat. I watched him sit to quickly and rise up suddenly, then ease himself back down. He caught me staring at him and blushed and grinned, and I grinned back.

"Miss Erica!" roared the professor, and I felt my blood run cold. I froze, a stupid, terrified grin on my face. The schoolmaster was bearing down on me like a charging rhino.

"Would you mind sharing with the class what it is you find so amusing?"

* * * * *

"How many will be there?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Between a dozen and three dozen," said Greg. "It varies widely. Some are regulars who attend nearly every session, while others come monthly or even less frequently."

"When were you last there?"

"A few weeks ago. It had been a long time since my previous visit, that time when you went back home on vacation, so I took a really bad paddling and caning. It marked me good for a couple weeks. I was afraid you'd notice."

"So that's why you were always wanting to make love in the dark!" I laughed. "I thought you'd gone modest on me."

* * * * *

The gray carpet had held a pigment at one time; I suspected brown or tan, but it was hard to tell. Deciphering this riddle was low on my priority list, however. Far more important was the fact that the reason the carpet engulfed my vision was because I was draped across the lap of the schoolmaster, my pleated skirt flipped up, my white panties yanked down, and my bare bottom exposed and waiting for pain.

It came, first in the form of a heavy palm slapping the plump flesh of my backside, then as the leather sole of a slipper expertly wielded. My bottom sang with pain. Never had I been so conscious of every bulge, bounce, and ripple of my rear end. Trying on thong bikini bottoms at noon in the main square of a popular mall wouldn't have been nearly as intimidating and embarrassing as being spanked like a four-year-old in front of a room full of strangers.

Yet it was also fantastically exciting. I was naked, humiliated, exposed, helpless. There was something powerful in that combination. Every guy I glanced at, including Greg, was stiff with arousal. And I suspected that wasn't the barrel of a revolver I felt in the schoolmaster's pocket.

The pain wasn't bad at first. It was simply warm and vigorous, engulfing like a bear hug from a favorite uncle. I melted under it, my body relaxing, opening, releasing. By the time the schoolmaster started with the slipper I was craving the increase in intensity. I wanted _more_ pain. I wanted to hurt. I glanced toward Kim, standing at the blackboard with her panties around her ankles, her buttocks scarlet and blistered, and I wished I was her. I wondered what the strap felt like, licking into your flesh, raising welts.

As the spanking continued, I realized with shock that my ass was on fire. It burned with a pain that bewildered me. Every fresh smack of the slipper tore a gasp from me, and I realized with surprise that I was weeping; in fact, I'd been weeping for some time.

But the spanking didn't stop -- it accelerated, the slipper coming now harder and faster, somehow always catching me by surprise, finding fresh flesh to sting. My bottom rose and fell and rolled like waves at sea.

I heard a strange noise; someone was strangling a cat. It was a ludicrous sound of high-pitched squeals and yowels; dreadfully annoying. Just as I was about to scream out for someone to shut the fucking cat up, I realized with a choking gurgle that _I_ was the one making the ridiculous sounds!

That broke me completely. I relaxed -- I hadn't even realized how tense I'd become. My body lay flopped across the schoolmaster's lap and I just sobbed and sobbed as he pounded away.

Hours later, I became dimly aware that I was no longer being spanked. My ass burned as though I'd sat my bare bottom on a hot griddle, but there was no longer a fresh assault every few seconds. Vaguely I realized I was standing at the chalkboard next to Kim, my skirt neatly pinned up, my panties trapping my ankles, my blistered butt totally exposed. I thought I could feel every eye on my ass, but when I glanced over my shoulder, I saw the class was watching a naked boy being caned.

I watched, too, in utter fascination as the long rod drew vivid stripes across the bare cheeks. The pain must have been hideous. My eyes caught the owner of the butt in question, and I gasped when I saw it was Greg. He was gritting his teeth and smiling at me.

I beamed back.

It seemed I'd found a match. I guess I knew what we'd be doing Friday evenings from now on. The thought frightened and excited me. But after all, wasn't that the point?

The End

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