Story from Februs 38.
A Lesson For The Teacher
Short Story by Madeleine de Vichy
SHE LAY THERE, face down, blonde head cradled on folded forearms and felt this might be a mistake. A big one. She'd never been interested in this; the one friend she knew who'd dabbled still blushed and burbled unconvincing babble about pleasure and pain: the only piece she'd ever read on it had made her feel sick...
But she wasn't sick now... nor babbling... nor trembling. Breathless maybe... hot certainly... damp, too... but not sick, not now. So how could this he? Right here, right now, nearly naked with a man she hardly knew... her bottom in black DKNY knickers plumped up over three big cuddly pillows... wailing. For what?
Was she mad?
Maybe, but in her head she knew that this was new and exciting and she loved him and that's all she wanted to know. If spanking be the food of love, spank on, give me excess of it. Poetry, too. Whatever next?
But it'd hurt, wouldn't it? Could she stand it? Or would she have to say 'Stop!' Scream 'Stop!' and loudly?
She sighed into the rumpled blue cotton of their love-tossed sheets, still alive with the scent of their rolling coupling. She smelled her own Rive Gauche; his smell, too... but what was his smell, unlabelled, unsaleable, unforgettable? But it was beautiful and her lips caressed the crumpled blue cotton and she breathed in deep.
He'd called her "My Lovely" and she'd asked him to keep saying it. He called her gorgeous and beautiful and generous and sweet. She wanted to believe him. Oh, sod it, she did believe him and he made her feel real and warm and damp. Very very damp... but would it hurt? Could she bear it? Or would she have to say 'Stop!'.
Even now she couldn't believe she was really here, doing this. He hadn't talked her into anything; hadn't even tried, and she hadn't sought it out. It happened just naturally like tiny spring buds turn magically into achingly-innocent summer-green leaves.
Well, yes, there had been that one game-playing slap on her pinkly bare bottom as they rolled together across the blue cotton playground they'd created one unexpectedly vivid morning... but that was her fault, chatting perversely to this all-too-human man about god-like Greek fishermen and their golden, gloriously-muscled perfection as they'd swaggered, flashing-eyed and oh-so-fanciable, across the summer vacation sands of Lesbos... funny how it was always the men - never the pretty dark-haired giggling girls in their cut-down shorts and tiny tight while T-shirts - who strutted and posed in her head those troubled, restless, sleepless nights.
And that slap - not really a smack, certainly not a spank - had started all this, made her willing to look deeper, eager to taste, to feel freer, more feminine... naughtier... maybe even dirty.
Dirty. The one small word in her mind now turned her on and when it came from him she felt the warm, damp, moistness begin to soak through the clingy featherlight black of Donna Karan's silently-whispered invitation to sin.
Dear Donna, Thanks for the invitation. I ACCEPT!
Now, face down, she thought about him. Could he see the moist patch? Did he know what she was thinking? Did she care? Why didn't he just get on with it? Right now, in her own secret assessment, she felt like a whore.
That one word, even unspoken, deep inside her own head, could almost make her come. If he said it, close-up, hand on her arse, tongue in her ear, fingers touching, tickling, teasing her... ahhhh!
Her bottom - it was only her arse if it was ready to be smacked and hard -was more sensitive now than ever she remembered, wriggling and twitching untutored; it had a mind all its own and she knew that if he didn't spank her soon she'd... she'd... what? Cry? Beg? Demand? Walk-out? No, not that. She'd simply ask him to do it... politely, saying 'Please' then 'Thank you'. Doing it nicely always worked. She hoped.
But she wanted to be spanked hard - not some mimsy-whimsy limp-wristed tap or slap or apology for a tickle. No, it had to be hard and it had to be soon and she told him, dearly and precisely, surprised at her own good manners: 'Please spank me now... and hard.'
His voice - and she loved his voice, low and not-wholly common, nice vocabulary, Rough-Trade-brutal-but-with-inbred-cheek - and she loved it when he said 'Fuck'; sometimes she asked him to whisper it just so she could hear it and get warm and hot and damp and randy and want to fuck him hard right then and there.
Then she knew she WAS a slut... and she loved every single second... every fucking second of it.
Why, then, did she feel so supremely feminine right now, face down, moist and warm and waiting to feel his hand spank her bare arse? And why did that jolt of mild fear stoke-up the scary, spooky, wanton, willingness she'd never ever expected to feel, any place, any time, any life?
She wasn't confused, just wanting him to do it, wanting it to happen, deciding then and there to "reward" him later if she liked it - her lace-edged black knickers would be slipped secretly under his pillow afterwards, a keepsake, a bedtime comforter for a nice man, a good lover, but only if he did it well... but now she knew why she was here. This was trust and love and something else, something she'd never felt before, something she'd always somehow hoped to find, without knowing what it was she sought.
And she was loving every second - every fucking second of it.
So what was he waiting for? Her bottom wriggled more obviously now - he'd said how much he loved that; it just 'did it' for him, and surely he'd pull down her knickers and make her take it on her bare-naked arse?
He would - wouldn't he?
Surely he would?
He was over her now, leaning down, lips pressed to her ear, his tongue tracing a warm damp line round the loop above her earlobe. She shuddered, moaning softly, wriggling against him, feeling his cock harden against her thigh. Pressing hard against it, hoping to bribe him into giving her what she wanted... the good hard spanking she so richly deserved.
Deserved? Richly? She was shocked by her own choice of words. She'd never thought about it like that before.
'You sure you want this?' There was tiny doubt in his voice. 'I don't want to hurt you. I couldn't live with that. If I hurt you I'd feel like... well, like shit. I love you. I can't hurt you. Are you sure, certain, you want this. Are you?'
Her voice, Middle-England, posh - yes, she'd had elocution as a teenager - was very firm: 'Yes, I am quite sure. Now please do it, and very hard, please. Is that all right?'
'Very hard? How hard is very?'
'I think you know. I'll tell you if it's too much. Now, please, spank me.'
He was going to protest again. Had his arrogant bottle finally gone together with his outspoken willingness to give her 'Whatever You Want' - the old Quo hit had become his mantra of sexual treats, an eternal promise of love between them. Had that gone with it?
'Very hard, please.' Her voice was suddenly firmer. No-nonsense. Meaning it. Get it done. Right here, right now. 'Please.'
Then her calm evaporated with his next unexpected words: 'Right, then, get your knickers down, down round your thighs, leave 'em there. Understand?'
The jolt hit her belly first, it tightened in alarm-cum-excitement-cum-shock. Her heart beat a little faster. He couldn't mean it, could he? Her mouth seemed to have gone dry and suddenly she knew it had never been this good before. She had never been this turned-on. It was fucking amazing. Her breath seemed harder to find, the very idea had winded her imagination and she felt like a total whore. Her bottom wriggled and she lay there wrapped in the feeling that suddenly all was good and right and well with her face-down world.
His voice again: 'Do it, or nothing happens. Your choice. Make-your-mind-up time,' and he looked hard at her naked back, seeing the pressed-down swell of her left breast, wanting to touch it, resisting the temptation, waiting for her to push down the black DKNYs and to show him the plump while mound of her warm, round, touchable, kissable, spankable arse.
He's trying to get out of it, she thought as her hands reached down and eased the waistband loose, wriggling a little, inching the tight black roll of flimsy damp fabric down and onto the white softness of her upper thighs, feeling the panties cling like silken rope, hobbling her legs in a harmlessly-perverse pretence of Tie-Me-Up-Tie-Me-Down.
As she did it, another surge of erotic power crackled through her, shafting straight to her most secret, most sensitive places. The warmth there was suddenly unbearably delicious and she wanted to come like never before... but first she wanted him to spank her, then to fuck her and then she'd suck his cock.
One simple order, 'Take your own knickers down' had turned her fear to longing and her longing to aching, dizzying need.
She ached there, right there, moist, breathless... wanting, and now she knew that her arse really did have a life all its own. Deliciously, shamelessly. Whatever You Want, Whatever You Like... Whatever would Mummy say?
And through it all she knew that tonight she'd learned something about herself which she would never have believed. She really was a whore and she was ready to go. Turned-on and feeling the warmth seeping through every inch of her body. She glowed, she was content and she wanted his hand - his lovely hard firm hand - on her vulnerable, unprotected bare-naked bottom. Both cheeks, one at a time or both together.
Just do it.
PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE!
'How many?' his voice was businesslike. She hesitated, unsure, unwilling to go too far white not wanting to flinch from the 'fun'. 'Ten... very hard.' Her voice was sure and firm. Suddenly, no doubts, she knew what she wanted and it would always stop if she called 'Stop!'.
Now he dithered. 'Ten? You sure? Quite sure?'
Her voice held up. 'Yes, quite,' and then it started. S-L-A-P! and it stung like hell, his hand fell bigger than it looked and his fingers were suddenly longer, more-supple, almost cruel. It stung, but it didn't hurt in the way you think of "hurt".
He told her to keep count. Not difficult, his hand fell with long aching pauses between smacks.
'One... two... three... Christ, that hurt. I've lost count... two... three... four... five. It feels hot. Am I marked?'
She was. His fingers had left vivid scarlet trails across both pink cheeks of her plump bare bottom but he ignored the question. 'Keep counting. How many is that?'
'So how many to come?'
His hand, palm flat, fingers spread, fell and she screamed a little low scream. 'Six'.
'Say thank you.'
'Six, thank you.'
Then, 'Seven, thank you... eight, thank you... nine, thank you' and she waited for the last one. 'How many more?' he asked.
'Just one, please.'
His hand rested on her bottom, fingering the red marks, pinching lightly her overheated flesh.
'And where do you want it? Here?' his hand tapped the enflamed left cheek of her arse, 'or there?' he tapped the scarlet round on her right.
'There. Just there. The right, please.' That side didn't seem to hurt so much. His hand fell and it hurt now. 'Oh, fuck.' Breathlessly, she swore against the cotton sheet, half hoping he hadn't heard. Bad move. 'And two more for filthy language. Naughty girl.'
She wanted to protest, say 'No', but his hand fell swiftly, mercilessly, before she even knew it, two more slaps racked her angry, red bottom and he moved back, leaving her to explore the sensation. Slowly she raised her head, no tears, no regrets, just an absolute longing to be held and kissed and made to feel loved. Her arms opened to him and they clung together. Her mouth on his was violently demanding, lips wet, tongue urgently seeking inside his mouth.
'Hold me.' He held her, tightening his grip, tasting her mouth, pushing her down, forcing her down, trapping her arms under his, feeling her weaken and seeing her eyes sparkle and flare as she felt his strength and knew she was imprisoned in the pleasure of her pain; her body, her mouth no longer her own. And, above it all, she felt a gentle, soft contentment ease through her. She closed her eyes and let the feeling run away with her.
She felt his hands on her, tugging at the waistband of her lowered knickers. She stirred. 'Pull them up... right up,' he told her. 'Right up 'til you feel them touch your clit... then keep them there.'
Her immediate thought. One word: 'Bastard!' but she did as she was told and the knickers, pulled tight, cut into her, slipping easily into the warm wet furrow of her sex. Her clitoris, enlarged now and hungry for touch, ached as Donna Karan's unknowing designer cruelty caressed and kissed and tugged and licked her sexual centre and made her scream out to come.
She touched herself, one finger only... but how did he know these things? Clever clever dirty sexy man.
His voice again. 'No hands. Use this.' A vibrator; lavender vinyl and very light, buzzed gently into life as he twisted the button-control to high. She took it, eyes locked in his, and told him, 'Only if you watch,' and, skilfully, wickedly, she played the vibrator through her stretched wet knickers. 'Is that what you wanted?' she asked. He could only gasp and nod.
It went on for ten-fifteen-twenty minutes. He didn't look away. Wouldn't. Couldn't. The vibrator - she'd called it Harry; who the fuck was Harry? - moved inside her knickers, her guiding hand became more-certain and her eyes closed, her hips came up and her head went back with a long low moan from the back of her throat, EEEEEK-ing out over her lips into a beautiful, depraved, despairing bubble of obscene self-satisfaction.
And, as it happened, her bottom wriggled harder than ever before and he felt it touch his thigh and instantly felt his cock harden into unflinching granite with a hidden core of pure steel stairrod. Now it was his turn to say: 'Aaaaah!'
The teacher lay there, eyes still closed, feeling a generous warm soft glow spread from her bottom to her whole grateful body. She turned, eyes locking on his: 'And now,' she said in her posh polished educated classroom voice, 'I think it's time you fucked me... and very hard. If that's all right... please.'
'That'd be fine,' he said, moving over, brushing his hard cock against her thigh. 'But do I get good marks, teacher?'
She nodded, pushing her panties right down and finally off - mustn't forget to leave them under his sweat-stained pillow later - and opening her legs wide.
The pink suburban bedroom - for some reason she called it The Cake - took another spin around the world and suddenly, unexpectedly, she found herself thinking that this lovely randy man was about to come top of the class.
And she smiled the kind of smile that only the truly gifted can truly smile.