At last, the door creaked open, shedding weak lamplight across the draughty landing where
she knelt in Mr Grey’s shadow.
“Ah, Miss Tomlinson. We have an appointment.”
“I know, sir,” she whispered so quietly she scarcely heard the words herself.
He stood to one side and she rose, still hanging her head, and passed silently into the
study. The door closed behind them with a soft but definite thud.
He sighed with regret. “You understand why you are here, and what must regrettably
happen now?”
“Yes, sir. I am here to receive my deserved punishment.”
A click of annoyance. “A redundancy, Miss Tomlinson! When will you learn? Were the
chastisement not deserved, you would not be here to receive it.”
“Of course not, sir. Thank you for correcting my error.”
“Unfortunately, verbal correction will not suffice in your case. For such a grievous
lapse I must double the strokes.”
“I understand, sir.”
Pat trembled with dread anticipation but, in a trice, Mr Grey assuaged it and her fear
vanished like a husk, for he extended his hand and softly brushed her long hair back over
her shoulders, exposing her full breasts.
“I know you think me hard, Miss Tomlinson - ”
“No, sir. Never!”
“But I think you do.”
“No, sir!”
His hands wandered to her bare breasts, gently cupping them in his palms, and her body
kindled, sending little flames of heat and joy shooting through her loins and all over
her.
“You have magnificent breasts, full, round, and well nippled – worthy of Venus herself.
Indeed, your body is that of a goddess. Exquisiteness of mind and endeavour must match
exquisite form. Your perfect breasts, your magnificent bottom, and the ermine-fringed
mound between your heavenly thighs bestow a responsibility, my dear Miss Tomlinson, and a
profound duty. Your work must be worthy of your heavenly shape. I’m sure you see that.”
“You do me too much honour, sir.” Pat blushed at his blandishments, though they
overjoyed her. Let him take any reward he wished. “Thrash me, sir, if that is your will.
Thrash me hard, so I might understand the error of my ways.”
He sighed deeply. “Alas, it is not my will but my bounden duty to do so. Go down,
please!”
A Windsor chair stood before her. She leaned forward and gripped the arms, spreading her
legs and pushing her bottom towards her beloved master, to give him the pleasure of a full
and uninterrupted view of her sex while he thrashed her.
She heard him open his cupboard door, and one of his canes rattled slightly against the
wooden lining as he removed it from its hook. A floorboard creaked as he returned to
stand behind her, and then she felt it, the slender shaft stroking her bare bottom cheeks.
Her experience told her that his chosen instrument tonight was his heaviest and most
dreaded cane, the one with the big knots along the shaft. There would be no mercy; she
had let him down. It mattered not that he pushed her to impossible limits for his own
glory. She loved him, therefore to thrash her mercilessly was doubly his right, as her
schoolmaster and as her betrayed lover.
“Count the strokes please, Miss Tomlinson.”
“Of course, sir.”
She heard the cane whistle as it scythed through the chill air. She involuntarily
tensed.
Thwack!
The impact knocked the breath out of her and she gasped.
“One, sir.” She gritted her teeth for the next.
Stroke followed stroke. The first six always hurt dreadfully, but after them the
pleasure came, not just the pleasure of abasing herself naked and receptive before her
masterful lover while she submitted to his wrath. That was always a joy, even while the
strokes sent shockwaves through her body. But after seven or eight, the real pleasure
came; each stroke was a new stimulation, stoking the fires of her sexual passion, and her
juices flowed in readiness for him.
Thwack!
“Nine, sir.”
The litany came more easily now, and the pain itself was a pleasure, she relaxed her
bottom and thrust her gaping sex at him, willing him on, exulting in her ability to
demonstrate her passion by accepting his punishment willingly.
Thwack!
“Fourteen, sir.”
Strike on, my lover! Strike! See how I suffer for you.
Thwack!
“Fifteen, sir.”
She was hot; her face burned. Lightning coursed through her veins. He would take her
when he had thrashed her. Soon. Please, very soon now.
Thwack!
“Twenty-one, sir.”
She counted automatically, no longer feeling the pain of the strokes, but only the jolts
of pleasure they caressed from her.
Thwack!
“Twenty-two, sir,” she panted, almost unable to stop herself weeping with joy.
Thwack!
“Twenty-three, sir.”
How long would he continue? How long would she have to wait for his urgent forgiveness?
How many strokes had he originally intended — twelve or eighteen? The pain did not
trouble her, but how long would she have to wait before she enjoyed the full, urgent glory
of his lust?
Thwack!
“Twenty-four, sir.”
Her palms slid on the Windsor chair arms; she was dripping with sweat and shaking
violently, her wet hair stuck to her sweat-glistened skin as she willed her trembling legs
not to buckle under her.
He paused. Let it be now! Please, let the ecstasy come now!
She heard the floorboard creak and wood rattle as he wordlessly returned the cane to its
hook in the cupboard.
“Thank you, sir,” she gasped, breathing hard. “Thank you for justly correcting my
grievous fault.”
Still he said nothing. The floorboard creaked as he re-approached, and she almost
swooned as she felt his hand softly caress her sex, yet this was nothing compared with
what would come next.
“Please, sir,” she moaned, unable to contain her desire. “Please help yourself. Enjoy
me, sir, I beg you.”
She felt him fumble a moment, there was a thrust, and then he was inside her, his
monumental pillar of desire stiffening her resolve to try harder, to be worthy of him, his
mastery of her, and his manhood. He drove deeper, right into her, and it was as though he
owned her, inside and out, every inch of her skin, every vital organ, and every drop of
her blood. It had to be so, it was right that he should own her body, for he already
owned her soul. His hands were under her breasts, cupping the dangling, sweat-bedewed
mounds. His thumbs wrote circles round her nipples, his groin and public hair scoured her
bruised bottom’s inner cheeks as his hard penis surged ever deeper into her, swelling
impossibly until she felt there was nothing inside her skin but him, and his every thrust
drove her closer to heaven.
“Let it last, sir. Please, please,” she groaned. “Let your pleasure of me last forever
and - ”
The light went on, her eyes snapped open, and she blinked. Mr Grey’s lofty office
vanished and she was in her own bed. Frank was leaning through her open door. She still
panted, and her heart beat madly.
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