Miss Beach Learns a Lesson (Part 2)

[housemaster]

MISS BEACH LEARNS A LESSON (Part 2)

As the teacher lay over my lap, it was difficult to think only of the discipline involved. Her body in its partial uncover was remarkably attractive, her round behind encased in meshed black panties which mirrored her stockings, which themselves encased her long, athletic legs. Slowly —very slowly, intentionally— I lowered her pants to her knees, gradually revealing her backside and, yes, between the slightly parted thighs, her sex as well. Right now her bottom was white.

I began the spanking as I would with any girl in the school, half a dozen to one cheek, half a dozen to the other, alternating back and forth. The snap of my hand onto her backside filled the otherwise silent room. While Miss Beach had undergone innumerable corporal punishments as a girl at boarding school herself, she seemed to have surmounted the humiliation so as to become quite a disciplinarian herself. Yet as the second dozen was applied, I began to sense a weakening, the woman returning to the punished girl. Her bottom turned from pale white to pink to the beginning of a serious red, and she began to make sounds that indicated not only her physical discomfort but the embarrassment she was reliving, and now at the hands of a male colleague.

The Headmaster was silent but his attention never faltered, and soon each stinging smack merited a slight moan from Miss Beach, although she was clearly doing everything to restrain any tears. As the fourth dozen was applied, however, she began to lose control, much as would any girl sent to me for punishment. At the conclusion of the forty-eighth spank, I stopped for several seconds and allowed the room to fill with only the sound of her deepening sobs. The Headmaster’s office was a large room, and a slight echo magnified the sound of Miss Beach’s unhappiness.

“Up you go, Beach. Keep your pants down and over to the corner with you. You’ll do cornertime until the next phase of your punishment tonight. Let’s go, quickly! And remove that dress, please.”

She surely had not expected having to stand nose in the corner, pants down, hands on her head for as long as the Headmaster and I elected. This was a humiliation that girls hated above any other, I had learned. While a punished girl stood in the corner in that remarkable posture and absolutely silent, I would ordinarily carry out other business, either grading papers or dealing with additional students. Miss Beach, of course, did not have other students to witness her condition, but the Headmaster and I made small talk about various administrative tasks at the school, potential gifts from donors, and the like. With her bare behind glowing bright red out at us, Miss Beach was, I suspected, at first steaming mad, then utterly humiliated. Every now and then I would call over, “Get those hands up, Beach.” Once I emphasized the instruction with an additional smack on her bottom, which made her jump and cry out in surprise. After ten minutes it was time to complete the evening’s work. I secured the Housemaster’s junior cane —I prefer the thin, whippy quality to that of the heavier senior version— and rose and spoke.

“All right, Beach, cornertime is over. Back to the chair, girl, at once. Let’s get on with this.” I swished the cane through the air so that before she even turned around she knew what was coming. Her face turned deep red once again as she had to face me naked below the waist. I pointed to the chair on which I had sat only a few minutes before. “Bend and grasp the seat, please.”

A caning is, of course, meant to produce great unpleasantness. Done by a competent disciplinarian —and I had become at least that much— it leaves a long-lingering sting along with the tell-tale thin red lines which would remind a girl of her experience even as she lay in bed that night. Sleeping “on the tum” was the schoolgirl vernacular for the residuary effect of an afternoon’s caning. Ordering a girl to her tip-toes, as would be done with Miss Beach, cause her to thrust her bottom up just a trifle more; again, I suspect that it adds more to the emotional sting than to the corporal, but then the corporal would be quite enough without supplement.

“Headmaster, might I receive some guidance from you on the severity of the punishment.” When he had begun the school, he was quite the martinet that the founding parents hoped for, but that was many years ago. I don’t know if it would be quite right to say that he had mellowed, but he certainly had delegated more and more of the day-today responsibilities. I was pleasantly surprised by his animated response.

“Let me tell you what I have been thinking, Mr. Jones, although I really do believe as discipline master you should have the final say. While I realize that there are several sessions to come, it seems to me that she should have the law laid down at this first opportunity. I would recommend that the number be left open and that she count, thank, and request. Does that make sense to you?”

“Perfectly, Headmaster. That’s how we’ll do it.”

Now any girl reading this who has been caned knows quite well that “six of the best” are usually enough to make her wish she had never been born, again from a combination of pain and humiliation. A dozen constitutes quite an unforgettable chastisement. The Headmaster had suggested no initial limit on the strokes and that Miss Beach count each stroke out loud after it was applied, that she thank me for it, and that she request the next. It was all she could do to contain herself, and one had to respect her effort. But once she bent low, her hands holding the seat of the chair, her bottom raised for its meeting with the flexible, thin implement of her education, her composure began to fail. I ran the cane through the air a few more times so that she could hear it before I positioned myself behind her and to the side.

I uttered the words every English schoolgirl of her generation and class had heard time and again. “Girl, present yourself.” At this, she rose onto her tip-toes, and I placed the cane against her (now) pink behind. This time there was a discernible pause between withdrawal of the implement and the stroke itself, perhaps two or three seconds. When I brought the junior cane down and against her bottom —with the snap of the wrist the Headmaster always said was perfected at St. Stephen’s— the sting almost visibly flashed through Miss Beach’s waiting backside. She drew in as deep a breath as she could to try and avoid crying out, but it was clearly a ruse, a noble one, perhaps, and an unsuccessful one, unfortunately for her.

“One, Sir,” she called out. “Thank you, Sir. May I please have another?” That last question, repeated so many times by English schoolgirls to their disciplinarians —whether faculty or prefect— was never forgot for all the years after, the ultimate humiliation. Her backside now had the thinnest red line crossing it, a line that she would not forget every time she sat for a week even when dressed. I looked over at the Headmaster, who simply smiled. I answered Miss Beach’s request with another stroke.

“Two, Sir. Thank you, Sir. May I please have another?” This request, too was granted. By the fourth or fifth stroke, it was clear that Miss Beach had no more defenses. She began to sob in between her required counting. She could not see the silent communication between me and the Headmaster, but after a dozen had been settled, I looked over and raised an eyebrow in inquiry. He raised one finger and nodded. I had to smile at his thinking: He wanted her to know that she had received more than a dozen. I laid on the thirteenth stroke.

“Thirteen, Sir,” she now sobbed. “Thank you, Sir. May I please have another?” Her bottom was not flagrantly marked, just a series of pencil stripes, each one of which represented quite a sting, but a universal angry redness pervaded her entire backside. If I may sound immodest, it was a fine piece of discipline. Maximum effect for the effort.

“I think that will do, Beach,” I said. “Headmaster, would you like to inspect?”

“Thank you, I would.”

“Girl, hold your place,” I commanded as the Headmaster walked over and assayed the view offering a compliment to me on my work.

“In a moment, Beach,” he added, “you will be given permission to rise and clothe yourself. You understand, do you not, that this is only the first session and that you are to arrange with the discipline master here the scheduling of your subsequent meetings?”

“Yes, Sir, I do.”

She was permitted to rise, her countenance more humble than I had ever seen it. She fumbled for her pants and drew them up over her stinging behind. She turned to me like the schoolgirl she had once been and said in a quiet voice, “Thank you, Sir, for my punishment.”

“Get your clothes on, and get back to your chambers, Beach,” said the Headmaster, his tone softened. “We want you to have a good night’s sleep. You have classes to teach tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Sir, I shall. Good night, Sir.” She retrieved her dress and hastily put it on, fully aware, of course, at how she had been attired —or unattired— only moments before. She left without another word. The Headmaster offered me a cigar and poured two snifters of brandy. We both puffed in silence for a while. He smiled broadly.

“A good job, James.” It was the first time he had ever called me by my first name. “There are times that I wish I were young again. Do you think it will have an effect on her outside this room?”

“I don’t know, Sir,” I replied. “I just don’t know.”

He took a sip of his brandy. “You know something, James? I don’t know either.”

[sgtjoe]

These are looking good. Bare-bottom punishment of an adult female -- very hot without getting into forcible sex, fingering etc.