The Academy

You tap your feet nervously as you wait outside the headmaster's office.

What a stupid thing this was. You're 18 years old, an adult!

if you want to smoke you ought to be allowed to, even though it was on school grounds.

You remember your parents telling you they went to schools that had smoking sections for the seniors! This is just so unfair.

You'd been a model student all your time at the academy. In four years you'd never been in trouble.

The academy was a coed boarding school that was a funnel school for the best colleges and universities. You had to work hard to stay there, and its strict regimen and attention to academics had honed you into one of the top students. Already accepted to your first choice school, this last semester was supposed to be a breeze, a time to let your hair down. What was wrong with a cigarette?

'Tap tap tap.' Your appointment was for 10 minutes ago. What was the holdup?

All they were going to do was give you a talking to, right? Just a formality for one of the school's best girls.

The door to the headmaster's office creaked open and you hear 'Come in, Lara'

You enter the room. Mr. Drawmore is seated at a broad desk of finely figured, varnished oak. A stern looking man of about 45 years, Mr. Drawmore had been (as he loved to tell you) educated at Oxford and was responsible for the tight ship that the academy had become. Since his appointment 3 years ago academic performance had skyrocketed, and disciplinary problems had plummeted. You'd heard rumors as to the reason for the latter...but those rumors couldn't possibly be true, could they?

"Well, Lara, it looks like you were caught smoking. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry Mr. Drawmore. I didn't think it was a big deal..."

"Not a big deal??? Not a big deal???"

"Leaving aside the fact that smoking is perhaps the single least healthful thing you can do to your body, what does the student handbook say about smoking?"

"It says that students are not permitted to smoke, under any circumstances."

"That's right. And so what do you think were the special circumstances that made it ok for you?"

"Well, I thought that..." and then you pause. Perhaps this is what the adults call wisdom, but you suddenly realize that nothing will be gained by offering your reasons, and it could very well make matters worse. "I mean, no excuse sir. I made a mistake, and I am very sorry. I have learned my lesson and I will not do it again."

"Well, I am glad to hear that you will not do it again, but I don't think you've quite had the full measure of instruction in your lesson yet. But you will. When your parents sent you to this academy, they fully understood the disciplinary methods we use here. They are, shall we say, traditional. And having broken one of the most important rules of this school, I have no choice but to administer it"

"Shit" you think. "I'm going to have my off-campus privileges revoked. I was going to meet Billy tonight, and was planning to, I don't know, maybe suck him off tonight. He'll be mad if I can't make it."

"As I said," Mr. Drawmore continued, "our methods are traditional and not subject to appeal. You will receive 12 strokes of the cane.

WHAT???

You stand stunned, your mouth hanging open in shock. Mt. Drawmore walks over to a closet and selects a long, thin, whippy looking piece of wood. "Let's get this over with. Please remove your uniform skirt"

You don't know what to say, but something in his aspect informs your consciousness that it would be most unwise to refuse. You remove your skirt so you are standing before him in your uniform blouse and blue knickers.

"Bend over the desk. I want you to grab the other end and hold on tight. If you move or your hands leave the desk I shall start over at one. Is that clear?"

You gulp and nod, trying desperately to conjure some moisture in your mouth but it has gone dry. The space between your legs, however, is like a Louisiana bayou in summertime. The pronouncement of your sentence has caused a gush that pales in comparison to anything Billy's inept fumblings had ever instigated.

You stretch out and grab the desk. You feel him peeling your knickers down to your knees. You start to protest but then think better of it. You only hope that your flamingly aroused sex isn't too obvious as it peeks through your legs. The cane swishes through the air with an angry hissing sound and you tense readying yourself for the first stroke.

You don't have to wait long, as you feel a thin stripe of electric blue pain painted across your cheeks.

Your eyes open wide and you gasp. You have never felt anything remotely so painful. Through a supreme force of will you hang on to the desk, but CRACK a second stroke lands a fraction of an inch below the first and exactly parallel. Mr. Drawmore has clearly practiced.

CRACK. CRACK CRACK. Three more strokes land in rapid succession, perfectly parallel and spaced.

You cry out and struggle to retain your composure. You want to twist your pained bottom in the air and shuffle your feet, anything to dissipate the pain, but you remember Mr. Drawmore's warning and keep your hands tightly gripped to the desk. Also, your pussy is drenched and you feel your juices running down your leg and do not want to draw any attention to it.

CRACK CRACK CRACK. Three more land right on target.

Your bottom is on fire now. You never thought pain like this could be possible, much less survivable, but you grit your teeth. You are determined to make it through this.

CRACK you surprisingly feel the cane impact your upper thighs, imparting a completely new kind of pain.

"Oh, I'm so sorry" Mr. Drawmore says. "That one was a little low of the mark. Regrettably I am not allowed to count that stroke so it will have to be repeated."

"What? Allowed by who?" you insolently think, but you are not graced with time enough to answer as three more strokes land in rapid succession. Your entire bottom is a welted mass of pain. You can feel the weals rising on your tender, punished hind end. You doubt you will be able to sit for dinner tonight. Indeed you doubt you will be able to sit for a week after this.

"One more to go. This one will be the one to count."

"One to count??? They've all counted!" but then CRACK!

The hardest stroke falls, and this time falls upon the already welted parts of your tender ass. You cannot take any more, and break down. You collapse on the desk, sobbing great heaving sobs that well up from a place you never knew existed until now.

Mr. Drawmore's aspect changes, and you somehow see him as...kind? He raises your knickers and if he notices your wetness he makes no mention of it.

"I do hope you have NOW learned your lesson, yes?"

"Oh yes!" you blubber, tears streaming down your cheeks. "I will NEVER smoke again."

"Very good. All is forgiven and I will expect to see you in class tomorrow. Please collect your skirt. You may take as much time to compose yourself in the drawing room as you need"

He curtly, but not unkindly shows you out of his office and you stand in the drawing room for a few minutes, drying the tears from your face. A mirror stands forgotten in the corner, and curiosity overtakes you. You lower your knickers and raise your skirt so you can at last lay eyes on Mr. Drawmore's handiwork.

12 indigo stripes cross your bottom, with one crimson one adorning your upper thighs as well. You feel a sense of pride for making it through it all. But more than that, you feel those grown-up feelings that you have been having, the kind that start deep in your loins and demand expression. You run back to the privacy of your room and masturbate furiously, not stopping until your erotic energy is completely spent.

As you lie on the bed panting, you wonder how your date with Billy is going to go. And how he will take it when you tell him what you need. A need you have only now just realized you had.