College Behavior Advisor Ch 04

Note to Readers:

All the people in this fantasy are at least 18 years old. People and places are imaginary, a movie that exists only in my mind.

Merri, a Margaret Thatcher College Behavior Advisor, aka official disciplinarian, has a Master's Degree in Applied Corrections. A field of endeavor in great demand as the country has new laws mandating public corporal punishment, with heapings of humiliation, for young adults violating even trivial laws.

This story concerns violations of MTC's Student Behavior Code, not the new laws.

This chapter explores on one aspect of correctional consequences for women. The use of punishment panties. A particular design of such panties is being field tested at the College. Merri is a lead investigator. CP happens. No sex. So skip, if that is your sine qua non.

The prior chapters of this tale relate how Merri comes to be standing in front of Zia, a young student beginning her first exposure to (in?) the College's experimental panty-girdle. You might want to read those chapters first. This chapter begins with the last sentence of the prior chapter.

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"We will wear these together today, Zia, I promise you."

I wave my hand at the high-waisted, knee length punishment panties I had just shoehorned her into, as part of her Student Behavior Board's mandated correction. Then, at my matching pair. Both pairs of panty-girdles bear the distinctive rose and sage green colors of Margaret Thatcher College, known to us as MTC.

"Thank you, Miss Cradle."

"Zia, you are welcome, but why are you thanking me?"

"Ma'am, as I was growing up, my mother always emphasized the importance of expressing gratitude to those who help me along the way. Even after moments of tough discipline, I make it a point to show my appreciation to her. I must admit, being punished in front of my family with my bottom bare is quite an unpleasant experience. The pain and embarrassment that come with it are difficult to bear. Especially when my sisters find it amusing to watch or my uncle and aunt disapprove of me with their stern glares while sitting on the couch. However, deep down, I get it that my mother's discipline stems from her love for me and her belief in the value of learning from my mistakes."

"Just like you are helping me understand the importance of self-discipline regarding my drinking. I appreciate your guidance and help, Ma'am."

"Zia, in my hometown, it's customary for us to respond to someone's gratitude by saying, 'you're welcome, it was my pleasure'. However, administering the hard hand spanking the Student Behavior Board required for your correction was not pleasurable. However, I am genuinely pleased to have met you and by this outcome. You are the reason I chose this profession. I am grateful for the opportunity to help you.

"I had a MTC disciplinarian who gave me the worst strapping of my life and then offered to help me. She started by helping me find better study habits. She mentored me in English, because as a science major I couldn't write a paper if my life depended on it.

"Maybe we could start with the weekly geology quizzes Professor Wobus likes to give. He still gives those, doesn't he?"

"Yes, Ma'am. That would be super. Thank you."

"Oh, Zia, please call me Merri when we are alone, or Miss Cradle, if we are out in public. You don't have to call me Ma'am."

"Okay, ah, Merri."

"Zia, you are moving about as if you need to tinkle. It is not that, I know. It's those darn punishment panties. Unfortunately, the best solution is to take them off completely, and that's against the rules for another ten hours for both of us. You know the adage, 'misery loves company'?"

"Uh, yes Ma'am. Oh, sorry, I mean yes, Merri."

I've taken Zia's hands again.

"I need your help."

"You do? Anything."

"Yes, there is something I need to have done."

"I will, Miss Cradle. I would like to help if I can. What?"

"Zia, remember I told you I put these correctional panties on at 6 this morning? Well, it is now after 9 and it is time to see if I need a sanding. I want you to do that for me. Please."

"Why?"

"Long explanation. I'm pretty sure you don't want to sit right now, but curl on your bed if you like." She does, and I sit cross-legged on her comforter.

"When I'm scheduled for my bi-weekly day confined in punishment panties as part of the experiment we're running for the government, I must put them on for myself. I don't have a roomie to help me. Pretty silly if a big girl has trouble putting on her own panties!

"What I can't do for myself is go through the embarrassing experience of having someone check my panties for sand and getting them perfectly... perfectly uncomfortably positioned. I need you to do that for me now.

"To help me, I've written something for my computer to text-to-speech when I'm getting dressed to remind me it is Panty Morning. Think of it as a sorority fight song. I want you to listen to it. Then, if you are still willing, I would ask for your help to live out my song.

"I amped it up to playful silliness for fun. To contrast, because wearing these ugly things is misery, NOT fun."

I hand Zia my tablet, which she takes. "Okay, Merri. Here I go." She presses the text-to-speech button.

As she listens, I stand.

Good Morning, Miss Merriweather Cradle. Today is your umpteenth Panty Day.

Deliberately, gracefully, fill the gusset of your itchy burlap panties, stretched taut between your knees, with coarse grains of sand slipping through your fingertips. The sound of the sand cascading into the gusset creates a gentle, rhythmic patter. As you inch those panties up to your waist, notice the cool touch of the sand against your skin. Savor subtle friction. Be thankful, Miss Cradle, that you do not have hot, swelling, newly spanked skin to create raucous friction. The scent of the sand, earthy and slightly salty, fills the air, mingling with your anticipation and sweat, Miss Cradle.

Work those panties up to your waist, young lady. Tug them tight. They are fighting you for every inch of skin.

As Zia listens to my Panty Day exhortation, I push my stubborn experimental panty down from my waist.

Okay, now place your fingers on the leather that covers the raw burlap gusset filled with sand, and massage the sand grains back and forth across the private skin between your cunny and your brown whorl behind. Delicately. But firmly. Don't rush Miss Cradle.

No doubt the woman who put you in this excruciatingly embarrassing position is enjoying running her fingers over your private area. Perhaps she hopes you will share some of her pleasure in this joint activity, as if she were here now. Sense the gritty grains; try to feel each one as it bites into you so primly. Yet so mercilessly.

As Zia reads, my panty now rests between my knees, friction from my parted legs holding it in place. The weight of damp sand in the panty's gusset, from my earlier self-sanding, requires constant outward pressure to keep the awful thing from slipping to my ankles. An uneven layer of sticky sand, damp with sweat, coats my pussy, clit, and labia lips. On my bottom, sand highlights, like a progressively widening waterfall, the crack between my cheeks,

Merri, take another handful of sand, assess its weight and texture, and pour it down the top of your special panty's waistband, over your pubes, between the burlap fabric and your delicate vulva. The sensation is unique - a mixture of softness and abrasiveness, as the sand settles snugly against your skin and within its folds. You can almost hear the grains shifting and settling, like a whisper in the wind, with the occasional odd shriek of rawness.

Don't forget, young lady, the crease between your bottom cheeks. Pour more sand into the back of your special panty. Feel it trickle down, filling every curve and crevice. The sensation of burlap on sand on skin is peculiar, like a gentle massage

with sandpaper!

and a tickle all at once. The waistband should resume its leather/burlap collar around your waist, two inches less roomy than your normal panties.

Zia hasn't yet noticed my embarrassing display. She still reads and listens, curling on one hip on her bed, red bottom and thighs facing away from me, grasping my computer tablet.

Now, dearest, before you secure your garment's clasp, place one hand on the front of the waistband and smooth your fingers down the leather G-strap that protects the front of your panty. Apply pressure up and down, up and down. Your other hand should knead the crease between your cheeks. Work the sand, the burlap, into where it needs to be. Imagine what a pleasure/horror this manipulation would be on freshly, thoroughly chastised bare flesh.

Scent the sand, blending with the faint aroma of leather from your yet to be cinched crotch strap. Speaking of the crotch strap, tighten it now. If you've followed instructions, Miss Merriweather Cradle, a sensation akin to a wedgie on sunburned skin, the leather strap pressing against your most intimate princess parts, reminds you of this important day. It is snug, secure, and acutely uncomfortable. Do you thrill, awash in the awful experience of this science experiment, Miss Cradle?

Zia's breath shortens. Her eyes widen at first, then squint. She sees me bare from waist to knees, my sandy vulva pointed at her lying on her dorm bed.

"I don't understand. What do you want me to do? Do you want me to put sand in your panty, Ma'am?"

"I'm not 'Ma'am' for the moment, Zia. I want you to follow the song's instructions. Please sand me."

"I guess I could." Her shoulders pull back and she eases up to her feet, rolling off the bed awkwardly to avoid putting weight on her bottom.

"One thing first. Zia. The critical piece in this for me. I told you the Board wants us to experience all the techniques and instruments we use to correct the behavior of our students. This experiment is important, and I'm not doing my part merely adding fresh sand to punishment panties I put on for myself. There is one other important thing that I cannot do for myself, besides the embarrassment of someone else checking on the sanding. Do you see what it is?"

"I'm not sure."

"Think about the steps that got you into those panties." I waive at the special panties she has just donned.

"Well, you... Let's see. I already had my old panties off. You pulled this new panty up to my knees and added sand. Then you pulled them up to my waist. You ran your hands between my legs to ensure the sand had spread evenly and then...

"Zia, you told me you had your old panties off. What happened next?

"You... you spanked me, Ma'am. Uh, Merri."

"Yes, Zia, I did. A strict spanking. One you deserved. You took it very well.

"I didn't receive a spanking this morning, Zia. My day didn't begin with the discomfort of tingling, burning, aching, and throbbing pain across my bottom and between my legs. I wasn't left feeling hot, sweaty, and swollen. I want you to spank me, please. For me to be proud of the way I help students at this College, it's crucial for me to understand the exact sensations they experience when I punish them this way. For me, wearing these miserable panties, and I know they are miserable, my new friend, is necessary but not sufficient. For that, my experience must include a spanking."

"But..."

"Zia, I need your help.

"I must follow our MTC experimental protocol for valid results. That includes a spanking before sanding. The way any woman will wear them if the Legislature adds them to consequences for women who break the law.

"Zia, please spank me."

With a jerky nod of assent, Zia replies. "You want ME to spank YOU, Miss Cradle? I don't want to, but I will if there is no other way, then yes. I will help you."

"Zia, you know parents are required to submit a form explaining any domestic discipline practices in their household that involve prospective students, right? Well, aside from the typical spankings administered by both your mother and father, your mother mentions in her form she requires you to spank your older sister on occasion. I bring this up because she states that, despite some initial hesitation, you ultimately took charge and gave your sister well-deserved firm spankings.

"Please spank me. At least a hairbrushing. We don't have time for a full punishment, like the one I gave you."

"Ah. Miss Cradle. Actually, it was my older sister, Suzy. She is a third-year student here at MTC. She got into some trouble Mom found out about. Mom made me go over to Suzy's dorm room and do a video blog while I spanked her. You know, vlogging?"

I nod. Zia continues, "Mom had me hand spank Suzy first. For warm up. Then I used Suzy's own hairbrush, just as Mom does. A dozen each for each thigh, butt cheek, and sit spot. Seventy-two thwacks altogether. Mom lectured Suzy the whole time.

"Oh, my, Zia. Have you done spankings with online vlogging before?"

Zia seems not to notice my question as she rushes on. "Mom believes that a punished daughter loses her right to privacy during a spanking. She made me -- well, she actually made Suzy do it while I filmed it -- post a sign on her dorm door. 'Spanking in Progress.' Supposedly, the idea is to prevent interruptions."

"Did she? I mean, did you satisfy your mother?"

"Yes. Or, rather, yes and no.

"When I finished the first set of six, Mom halted me. Those weren't hard enough, she told us. She made me to do them over. She instructed us that Suzy would whack my backside with the hairbrush, once for each of the six I'd messed up. Further, if even one of the rest I was to give Suzy were too soft, Suzy would give me my own, full 72 count, hairbrushing.

"I restarted Suzy's 72 thwacks -- that's Mom's word -- and finished them without earning more extras.

"Then, Suzy gave me my six for the ones I'd messed up. She put every ounce of strength she had into those six blasts, all on my thighs. With no warm up. I felt their deep ache for days."

"Wow, Zia."

"Ma'am, um, Merri, would it be okay if I just bend you over your desk?I don't want to sit down right now."

"Of course.

"Zia, what would your mother tell you if she were here to advise you? You are in charge of my punishment."

"She would tell me I have a duty to you. A duty to the school. To do what I'm asked to do, even if it is unpleasant. Sorry, I don't mean unpleasant, maybe scary 'cause I've never spanked a teacher before. No, that's not it..."

I notice Zia is wetting her lips. Cutting off her verbal exploration of this startling situation, I interject. "Please do this. I've another student to meet in, uh, half an hour, so if you are going to help me, please spank me now."

Zia lifts her face to look me in the eyes. I see her fingers lace together.

"Yes. Okay. Miss Cradle, put your hands on my desk and bend over." I turn and waddle to her desk, trailing sand in my wake.

"Further over," she orders. I bend enough to put some tension in the back of my bare legs and butt. Zia approaches from my right side. Another lefty! Another possible explanation of my subtle affinity with this young woman I'd met less than an hour ago. Although I have a lot of empathy I'm told, this fast rapport is unusual for me.

"Miss Cradle, if this is really what I must do, I'm ready to begin."

"Thank you, Ma'am." I tell Zia.

"My mother always warmed up our bottoms before a hairbrushing. That is what I'm going to do."

I am taken aback when a small hand begins pummeling my exposed bottom. And thighs. My! I remember and now feel in my fundament she has a freestyle swimmer's muscles.

Zia is doing a fast warming job, although not one likely to bring me to tears. Sweat, yes.

A rain of small handprints lands on my bottom like rain plunking on a puddle. They build to a fierce mini-squall of swats, no individual one of which hurts terribly. The cumulative effect is warmth, building like an electric stove's slow-to-heat burners. Steadily.

"Miss Cradle, my panties are really itchy between my legs, where you slapped my inner thighs. Please spread your legs apart."

What a thoughtful, awful, observant detail. I comply. Zia's small hands easily fit between my legs, slapping up to the edge of my crotch. Back and forth, backhand and reverse. Stinging has me panting, grimacing, and shaking my head in non-verbal negation. This is not pleasant.

"Okay, Ma'am."

What is she talking about?

"Should I continue?" Zia asks, almost rhetorically, as a determined mother's voice might solicitously ask.

"Yes, Ma'am." I say to Zia. "I need to hurt and sweat for the experiment to sufficiently meet the application protocol. Sorry, Zia, more babble. Please spank me hard enough for the panties to surround fully throbbing and puffy skin. Wet with irritating sweat."

"I'll try. Here goes," Zia responds.

My official hairbrush hits my bare bottom with force.

"Ahh. Ooo."

Zia has a pattern; most frequent spankers do. As a lefty, she moves left cheek to right. Clearly heeding my expression of a need for haste, she works that hairbrush efficiently, overlapping ovals of pain moving down my cheeks. After pausing the downward journey to deliver four extra-hard thunderclaps of pain to my sit spots, she marches my official brush down my thighs.

She addresses me: "I'm sorry, young lady. You asked to benefit from the full experience of sand on freshly spanked flesh. This... this... this... and this... will help you."

These four swats began silent tears flowing and snot spewing. "Eeeks" and panting, head shakes, and involuntary twitches are heard and seen by Zia. Any listeners in the hall will clearly know my distress. Just because I'm a professional disciplinarian who has have received many hard blisterings in training doesn't mean my super power is exceptional tolerance to corporal punishment pain.

My requested spanking is over I realize.

"Miss Cradle, I'm sorry. I tried to mimic my mom's two minute, what she calls 'short', hairbrushing. You said you have another student to help."

"Thank you, Zia. You did exactly what I asked. My thanks to your mother for your ability." I stand and turn to face her. "I suspect she would send me to a corner, not allowing me to rub?"

"Yes, Miss Cradle. Uh, Merri."

"I honor you both. Let's get these horrible things pulled up tight. No time for corner time. Rhymes, doesn't it?"

And that is what we do, a joint enterprise.

Zia places her fingers on the leather covering the outside of the raw burlap gusset, now filled with sand. She skillfully massages the sand grains back and forth across the sensitive skin between my cunny and the brown whorl behind. Delicately, but firmly, without undue rush. Is Zia enjoying running her fingers vicariously over my private area? If she is, well, that is a hush-hush benefit of being a disciplinarian.

Gusset massaged, Zia takes another handful of sand, judges its weight and texture, and pours it down the top of my special panty's waistband. Over my pubes, between burlap and delicate vulva. Quite a mixture of softness and abrasiveness.

She pours more sand into the back of my correctional panty-girdle, trickling down and filling all my nooks and crevices. The sensation of burlap on sand rubbing skin is peculiar, like a rough massage and a tickle simultaneously. The waistband tightens around my waist. There is an uneven layer of sticky sand, damp with sweat, coating the skin of my thighs. The sand highlights, using the contrasts of both color and texture, the crack between my cheeks.

Before securing the garment's clasp, Zia places one hand on the front of the panties. Her fingers smooth down the leather G-strap, creating irritating zips and zings. Dare I admit to a tantalizing inner response, too? I must, if I am to be honest with myself and develop my professional self-awareness.