Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
‘You haven’t written anything for Literotica for a while.’
It was Saturday and we were enjoying a late breakfast after a leisurely bout of summer morning lovemaking. Her face still aglow with post-orgasmic blush, Margaret dipped a finger into the honey jar and licked at the sticky sweetness with delicate dabs of her tongue, before sliding the whole finger into her mouth and sucking it provocatively.
‘Is that just an observation, or a complaint?’ I replied, moving the honey pot out of her reach as she showed every sign of intending to double dip.
‘No need to get sensitive! I’m not complaining,’ she grinned mischievously, ‘the service has been excellent lately.’ She dodged the toast crust I flicked at her. ‘But you’ve got quite a following on Literotica, and it would be a shame to disappoint them.’
‘It’s you they’re following,’ I replied, ‘I’m merely the scribe.’
‘Well I’m not stopping you from writing,’ she paused, her eyes narrowing like a cat’s, stalking its prey, ‘or is my sex life not providing you with enough interesting material? Should I seduce the next salesperson who comes to the door, or get a job as a stripper in a sleazy club, or hire myself out for football team gangbangs? I’m sure they’d like to read about that!’
‘I love it when you talk dirty,’ I said, leaning across the table to kiss her. Her hand grasped the back of my head and her tongue pounced down my throat. Then she broke free, her familiar deep-throated chuckle rumbling close to my ear, raising goose bumps.
‘You’ve got something in mind,’ I said, as the penny suddenly dropped.
‘It’s a good job one of us has.’ Her eyes narrowed again in stalking cat mode, before the eyelids lowered. ‘Well, actually, it’s some of my friends.’
‘Your friends!’ I couldn’t keep the startled tone out of my voice. ‘Have you been sharing the stories with your friends, our friends?’
‘With some, yes,’ she raised her eyelids and stared at me defiantly. ‘I mentioned that you were writing erotic stories, and when they asked for the link, I gave it to them.’
‘But they’re not just stories,’ I said, wondering where this was heading, ‘they’re our stories. It’s one thing writing for strangers to read, but quite another when people who know us will be reading them.’
‘Don’t be such a prude, they’re just stories, and they don’t know how much of them is true.’
‘Like that last one?’ I said warily. ‘You and I know that nothing after the bit about your mother being excused games after an operation is true, but the reader’s don’t. Some of your friends might think it’s all true, that you really did have sex with your father.’
‘So what, if it turns them on. Thinking about that gets me excited.’ I almost jumped as her fingers traced up my thigh towards my crotch. ‘And I bet it gets you excited too, go on admit it.’
The growing erection she was caressing through my pants was proof enough.
‘What do they have in mind?’
‘That’s better,’ she said, reaching for the zip, freeing my cock and gently squeezing my testicles. Then her grip tightened. ‘Funny how when you’ve got a man by the balls, his heart and mind always follow.’ She dropped to her knees in front of the chair, took my cock in her mouth and sucked me to full hardness. A string of saliva dragged from her lips as she drew back her head. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you what they’d like to read, then we can go back to the bedroom, and you can stick that lovely big cock back into me.’
‘Why wait until the – ‘
A finger closed my lips ‘Listen! You’re going to like it, and they’re all going to like reading about it.’
The following Saturday I sat in my study re-reading a handwritten note that had been thrust through the letterbox mid-week.
‘Headmaster,’ it began, ‘I regret to inform you that one of my pupils, Margaret Reynolds, has behaved disgracefully. She ignores repeated warnings not to talk in class, has failed to hand in her homework for the past three weeks, and has been caught smoking in the girl’s toilets on numerous occasions. All attempts at correction have failed and I refer her to you for punishment. I appreciate that you are no lover of the cane, but the severity of the offences deserves the severest punishment and I request you administer a minimum of 12 hard strokes, the last 6 of which to be on the bare bottom. She will attend your office at 10 a.m. on Saturday for this purpose. In order that Margaret does not attempt to evade punishment, she is instructed to return this note to me countersigned by you once it has been administered.’
I didn’t recognise the handwriting or the signature, presumably one of Margaret’s friends had penned it, but I liked the formal phrasing, the fact that someone else had determined how many strokes she was to suffer, and that the note was to be returned as proof that punishment had been carried out.
A weak knocking on the study door interrupted my thoughts. I checked my watch, mildly disappointed to see that she was spot on time, buttoned my suit jacket, and adopted my sternest expression.
‘Come Starzbet in,’ I growled.
The Margaret that pushed the door open and walked hesitantly toward my desk was unlike any version I had seen before. I had no idea where she had managed to source the Methodist Ladies College uniform she had squeezed into. The dark blue and grey, pin stripe blazer was too tight to button, and her breasts strained against the light blue shirt beneath it. The matching pleated skirt was hoisted well above regulation knee length, revealing plenty of leg swathed in demure black pantyhose, although the high-heeled shoes would never have been tolerated at her alma mater. Nor the amateurish makeup, with the cheeks a little too rouge, the clotted black eye-lashes and the lips a shade too red. Her hair had been pulled into a tight ponytail to complete the transformation into a well-developed teenager, wrestling with the transition from innocent schoolgirl to sexually aware young woman. She had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to dress for the role, and I was about to express my admiration, when I realised that I had to maintain the illusion she wanted to create.
‘Ah, Margaret Reynolds,’ I said collecting myself into the role of headmaster. I made a point of checking my watch. ‘I’m glad you chose to be punctual, and not add lateness to this,’ – I waved the letter at her – ‘catalogue of misbehaviour.’
I beckoned her with a finger, and pointed to the spot in front of my desk where she was to remain standing.
‘Your teacher has written to me about your continual disobedience. Talking, smoking, homework not done, and so on. Have you anything to say for yourself?’
‘No, sir, sorry, sir,’ she said, hanging her head meekly, but I caught a glimpse of the smirk that flashed across her lips. She was playing the part of petulant teenager faking remorse to perfection.
‘This is no laughing matter Reynolds. Such behaviour will not be tolerated. Tell me, how old are you?’
‘Eighteen, sir.’
‘Old enough to know better,’ I snapped. ‘At your age you should be setting a better example to the junior girls. Instead,’ I brought my fist down firmly on the desk, ‘I’m afraid it’s the cane for you Reynolds, there seems to be no other way to persuade you to behave as we expect a young lady to behave at this college.’
‘The cane?’ There was a note of defiance in her voice, as if she had little to fear from it.
‘Indeed Reynolds, not something easily resorted to, but in your case the only option left to us.’
I stood up, pushed back my chair and walked over to the corner where several canes sprouted out of a large vase. I selected the crook handled, half-inch inch rattan I had mail ordered especially for this purpose, gave it a few satisfying swishes and marched back to my desk.
‘Remove your blazer and skirt and put them there,’ I said, pointing to the chair in front of the desk.
The shocked look was quickly replaced by a sly grin and I thought I caught a muttered, ‘Dirty old sod.’
Removing the blazer revealed her breasts jutting firmly against the tight material of the blouse, which, although regulation light blue, was sufficiently sheer to reveal the black lace bra beneath. I caught her eye, and then deliberately lowered my gaze and was gratified to see the firmer outline of her stiffening nipples.
Somehow, she managed to blush, and then, coyly turning away from me, reached for the side zipper, undid it, lowered the skirt and dropped it round her ankles. I had to resist a chuckle at the high waisted low cut grey interlock knickers that were stretched over her ample bottom, a surprising contrast to the black lace bra, and also to the elastic top, black stockings that I had mistaken for pantyhose.
Keeping her back to me she stepped out of the skirt, dropped into a crouch to pick it up – I was disappointed she was not facing me so that I could enjoy a first glimpse of her grey swathed crotch – and laid it over the seat of chair.
‘Those stockings are hardly school uniform, Reynolds,’ I snapped, as she turned round to face me. ‘Just one more reason to ensure this caning is something you don’t forget in a hurry.’ I pointed with the cane towards the armchair on the far side of the study. ‘Now, kneel on the seat, lean forward and rest your arms along the back.’
The sullen pout turned into a quizzical look of genuine concern. I had placed the armchair close to the window, where it was spotlight by the summer sunshine streaming in through the opened curtains. I may have previously mentioned that our house is set down below the level of the road and partially screened by alders and bottlebrush. But an inquisitive observer coming down the drive could not fail to see the chair and Margaret, in profile, kneeling on it, while I remained concealed in the shadows behind. It was unlikely anyone would, but it was a risk I wanted her to take.
‘On the chair, NOW, young lady,’ I commanded and spread your legs against the arm cushions.
There was a slight, but convincingly rebellious snort, Starzbet Giriş and Margaret sullenly slouched towards the chair and knelt on the seat.
I poked the cane into the small of her back. ‘Lean forward and stick your bottom out. You can rest your head on your arms if your need to.’
Bathed in the sunlight she made a very exciting sight, kneeling on the chair, bent forward as if in prayer, with her lovely, generous bottom sticking out invitingly. Even more inviting was the exposed flesh of her upper thighs. It was such a tempting target, easily marked and very sensitive. But the instructions had been to cane her bottom.
I moved closer, better to enjoy the sight of her submissive posture, and gratified to see the dark patch on the gusset of her knickers. So far she had played the role of petulant, sulky student to perfection. But the evidence of her arousal confirmed her desire to push the role where no right mind student would ever willingly have gone.
When Margaret had first mentioned the role play I was surprised that one or other of her friends wanted to read about her being caned, and that she was keen to accommodate them. I had pointed out that I could write the story without raising a single welt on her backside without anyone being any the wiser. I was also a little worried that this type of role-play, with its emphasis on a stereotypical dominant male inflicting corporal punishment on a disempowered female, was quite different to the normal dynamic of our spanking, in which Margaret was anything but powerless. In waving my concerns aside, however, she surprised me by confessing that the idea of losing control turned her on, and she urged me, begged would not be too strong a word, to take the role seriously, and to cane her as I imagined a Victorian era headmaster would punish a student.
So there was a sudden rush of excitement as I realised that this was the moment at which her fantasy intersected with reality, and I felt my cock start to swell with the anticipation of caning Margaret’s lovely bottom harder than I had previously dared.
‘Spread your legs,’ I snapped, sharply tapping her inner thigh, ‘and brace yourself. I’ve been asked to administer 12 hard strokes, the last six on your bare bottom.’
A muffled gasp escaped Margaret’s lips, either the result of good play-acting, or because she had not known the number of strokes her friend had requested.
‘This is going to hurt, Reynolds,’ I said, measuring my stroke and giving the cane a few more threatening swishes, ‘but hopefully it will be a lesson to you.’
She already knew what the rattan cane could do in sadistic hands, having watched several porn site videos in which women, mostly in tears, were left with severely bruised and welted bottoms. The grey interlock knickers would provide very little protection, other than to hide the welts of the first six strokes, but I was confident from the hours of practise, both on cushions and on Margaret, that I could keep on target.
‘Ready?’ I whispered, dropping the pretence for a moment, to give her a last chance to back out. There had been no over the knee hand spanking to warm the skin and get the adrenalin flowing, she was going to take these strokes cold.
There was an affirming nod, and I saw her buttocks clench under the material.
I raised my arm, focussed my aim on the apex of the curve of her buttocks and whipped the cane hard across them. The rod ploughed a deep furrow into the tightly stretched material, then bounced back off the resilient flesh beneath. Margaret emitted a sharp gasp and dropped her bottom onto her calves.
‘One!’ I counted, before tapping the cane on her bottom. ‘Back up, and stick your bottom out. If you move again I’ll repeat the stroke.’ I hoped it sounded like I meant it, and was reassured when she jerked upright and presented her bottom.
I took aim and landed the second stroke just above where I judged the first to have landed. She was more prepared this time and emitted no more than a soft grunt, although I noticed she had clenched her fists.
‘Two.’
Encouraged by her muted reaction I swung harder and landed the third stroke struck just below the first. The grunt was more pronounced, there was a slight toss of the head, and her back arched.
‘Three, and keep still,’ I growled, beginning to feel quite at home in my new persona as the strict headmaster.
The fourth and fifth strokes were aimed lower, towards where I knew she was increasingly sensitive. The grunts were deeper and longer and, after the fifth stroke, she jerked her pelvis forward and hunched against the chair back.
‘Five,’ I said, menacingly, as she quickly pushed her bottom back into position.
The sixth, the last stroke onto her clothed bottom, I delivered back onto the apex, whipping it in with an extra flick of my wrist, which extracted a groan, a sharp intake of breath and an agitated shake of her pigtail.
‘Six,’ I snapped, standing back to allow her a little time to recover, but loudly swishing Starzbet Güncel Giriş the cane to remind her that it wasn’t over.
‘That was the easy bit, Reynolds. Six more on the bare bottom,’ I smiled as I reminded her. ‘I’m going to pull your knickers down now.’
I reached for waistband and peeled the knickers down to the tops of her thighs. Her buttocks were painfully decorated with four angry red welts across both cheeks, and one thicker purpling one, where the first and sixth strokes had coincided. As I lowered the knickers further I was gratified to see that the gusset was soaked and glistening with her juices. And any doubts over the sight of her tormented bottom were dispelled when she obligingly closed her legs to allow me to slide the knickers right down and off over her the high heeled shoes. Then she spread her legs again and enticingly wiggled her bottom, inviting me to gaze at her shaved vulva, the plump lips parting to reveal the inner pink cleft slick with her arousal.
I wondered again, as I did every time I spanked her, how Margaret took so much pleasure at being walloped by my hand or welted by the cane. I wasn’t complaining though, my erection was straining against my fly and I had to resist the temptation to insert a finger into her vagina to test how hot and wet she really was.
‘Are you enjoying this Reynold’s?’ I said instead, as sternly as I could, striding around to the other side of the desk so that I could see her face.
‘No, sir,’ she said, raising her head. Mascara stained trails stretched down her cheeks, and my stomach fluttered at the realisation that I had hurt her enough to draw tears, something I had never done before. Then her eyes narrowed and her mouth twisted into a pleading smirk.
‘Please Headmaster, please don’t beat my anymore. I’ll do anything you want, anything. Let me off the last six and you can do anything you want to me.’
The wheedling, whining tone in her voice reassured me that, despite the pain of the first six strokes, Margaret was far from calling it quits. She didn’t want me to stop, the tears and the pleading were all part of the act.
‘You should be ashamed, young lady,’ I thundered, with all the priggish self-righteousness I could muster. ‘You have been sent here for punishment and no amount of pleading or wanton display will save you from it.’
Margaret dropped her head to conceal her grin.
‘There are six more strokes, be thankful I don’t double them.’
I raised the cane, suddenly aware that the stakes had been raised. Margaret could have called a halt to the game, but she had not, and I wondered if she was tempting me to hit her harder.
So I did, the cane whistling down and thwacking across her naked, tramlined buttocks, lower then I intended, and evoking a sharp pained, yelp.
Forgetting to count, I Instinctively reached out and ran my fingers soothingly over the deeply reddening welt.
‘That’s nice Headmaster, you know where you can put your fingers,’ she taunted me. ‘I’ll cum for you if you want.’
This time I accepted the invitation and stabbed a finger into her gaping wet slit. She wriggled as it slid easily deep inside her.
‘You can fuck me too, if you want.’
‘Disgraceful, shameless girl,’ I said, jerking my finger out of her and whipping the cane down hard again. There was another yelp and another purpling welt where two strokes combined. Margaret shuddered and a bead of moisture trickled down her inner thigh.
‘Eight!’ I shouted, feeling a wave of lust fuelling a dangerous desire to hit even harder.
Which ruined my aim and the ninth stroke slashed at an angle across the previous ones, the tip biting into her right buttock immediately raising a red-flecked purple bruise.
‘Ouch,’ gasped Margaret, twisting as if try see the effect of the stinging blow.
‘Nine,’ I counted, pleased at the criss-cross effect, then, ‘face the front and keep still,’ hoping that my tone was severe enough to maintain the illusion that this was a punishment neither of us was enjoying.
Having seen the effect of the angled stroke I wondered how much better her bottom would look if I could change hands and deliver the last three strokes left handed. I decided it was something to practise for the future, took a couple of slow deep breaths to slow my heart rate, and then carefully aimed another hard criss-cross stroke that cracked across her buttocks with a sharp, resounding thwack.
This time there was no more than a gentle ‘Ooooohhhh’ from Margaret and I noticed that her eyes were closed as she rested her head on her arms.
‘Ten!’
Gazing at Margaret’s red and purple welted bottom, I felt the savage exhilaration that men and women have felt watching blood sports, from Roman gladiators fighting for their lives, to dog fighting and Holy Holm and Chris Cyborg trying to batter each other to pulp. There were two strokes left, Margaret seemed to be in little discomfort now that the endorphins had kicked in, and I suspected she was enjoying the hot tingling of the nerve endings in her buttocks and pelvis as the blood pumped towards the welted skin. Only two more strokes, but I wanted her to really feel them, to show that I had taken the role-play seriously, and that she had endured a caning worthy of a Victorian institution.