anarchistic_masochist
03-07-2010, 12:46 AM
A distinct contrast to the last chapter - decidedly more erotic and tender. :D Enjoy!
Cherry x
Now Myra and Mr Tennant were alone. He immediately helped her up. “Myra? Myra? Are you all right?” A tinge of panic coloured his voice. Myra groaned and opened her eyes. Looping his arm through hers, he escorted her to the large brown leather armchair that sat in the corner of the room. Adjacent to it, was a coffee table, complete with a china teapot, matching milk jug and sugar bowl. Mr Tennant loved his home comforts, and the biscuit tin was never far away. “Can you sit down?” he asked her. “I’ll try, Sir,” she said, meekly. The simple act of bending at the waist in order to sit was a Herculean task; it felt as if her skin had shrunk and every step was agony. “Oww-ww! Ahh!” she wailed, accompanied by a fresh torrent of tears. “Ok, ok, just bend over the arm of the chair, then. You should be well practiced in that by now!” He laughed nervously, trying to make light of a very bad situation. “Sir??” Myra squeaked. Surely she was not going to be punished again! “Don’t worry. Trust me.” She obeyed. The arm of the chair was soft, and bending over like this was certainly more comfortable than sitting down. If he was not going to spank her, then what was he going to do?
She heard the sound of a zip being undone and bottles clanking. Mr Tennant was busy rummaging in a battered old-fashioned brown leather Doctor’s bag. She was now conditioned not to turn around, so she obediently faced forward, inwardly panicking. Mr. Birch did not try too hard to conceal his obvious arousal; what the hell was Mr. Tennant going to do to her? He emerged triumphant, holding aloft a brown bottle of liquid and what looked like a tin of ointment.
“Found it!” he said. “Found what, Sir?” Myra asked, perplexed and nervous. “Witch hazel. The best for cleaning wounds.” “Wounds?!” Myra’s voice shot up an octave, her dazed drowsiness evaporating in an instant. “Mr Birch caned you so hard, he made you bleed.” Mr Tennant said simply. He placed the items on the coffee table and retrieved the implement that had made a complete mess of her bottom, not five minutes ago. “See?” he illustrated, so matter-of-factly; “the shaft has the distinctive blood spatter pattern of an over-zealous caning. But don’t worry, I’ll fix you up.”
Myra’s head whirled. Why was Mr Tennant being so mind-bogglingly flippant? The truth was the House Master was equally bewildered; he was also in shock as he struggled to comprehend what had just happened. When he had to think on his feet like this, he had a tendency to babble. He returned to the coffee table and picked up the brown bottle of witch hazel and he already had in his hand and a square of sterile gauze. “I know I really should send you to the nurse’s office,” he said, half apologetically, “but she will only have pharmaceutical creams. They’re nowhere near as effective as the old herbal ways. This will also bring out the bruising, and you will heal quicker.”
Myra relaxed. She felt so safe with this slightly eccentric teacher. He was different to the others. He was more…human. Candid moments were possible with him; he would never interpret casual conversation as insolence. “When I fell and grazed my knee at primary school,” began Myra, “the secretary used to put witch hazel on it.” She smiled at the memory. “We all loved being taken to the secretary to have some ‘magic cream’ put on our wounds. I used to love the attention. She would scold us if we whinged, though!”
Mr. Tennant smiled. He really was quite fond of this girl; he admired her spirit and her tenacity and she was usually such a perfect student. When his illusions were cruelly shattered, it totally enraged him. He felt responsible for ruining her by his liberal stance. When he had caned her, he never meant to be so harsh. Guilt started to gnaw at his guts.
“Well, I’m asking you to be brave right now,” he replied. “As this will sting.” He dabbed away at her injuries, the bruising, the soreness, and the cuts. Myra gritted her teeth and winced, hissing with the pain. She tried her level best not to complain. “Good girl,” he soothed, “I know this hurts.” “It’s ok Sir,” replied Myra, “just do what you need to do.” He continued to tend to her injuries. Myra felt her spark and her spirit return. She vowed that she would never cross Mr Tennant again, and that Mr Birch would pay for what he had done. She knew the House Master was on her side. Yes, thought Myra, justice will be done. Let’s see how you like it when I (metaphorically) whip your arse!
“Right, madam,” began Mr. Tennant, as he safely disposed of the bloodstained gauze. “Up you get.” He helped her up. Myra’s complaints were only whimpers now. He led her to the front of the armchair, sat down and with a skilful tug of the wrist, sent her tumbling across his lap! Myra started to panic and pant. “Shhh, my dear. There’s nothing to worry about. Being across my knee is the best way to access that bottom of yours, and I haven’t finished treating it yet!” He reached for the screw pot of cream that he had also retrieved earlier. He scooped out a generous measure with his middle and forefinger and slathered the cold ointment all over her scalding vermilion cheeks. Myra gasped, and then sighed. His touch was of a velveteen tenderness that made her shiver with delight. She tried to conceal her increasing excitement and Mr Tennant smiled inwardly as her hips lifted and plunged in his lap. He knew, of course that he was turning her on, but he pretended not to notice, instead choosing to focus on stroking and anointing her shuddering summits and shapely thighs. He was not even primarily concerned with his own gratification; he wanted this pleasure, this pure bliss, to be the one thing that she remembered the most from this whole sorry affair. He did not want her to be mentally scarred by Mr Birch’s brutality.
A wicked thought came to him, and he smiled like a lizard. He started to apply the soothing balm to her inner thighs. Lets see if she parts her legs, he thought. If she clamps them together like her life depends on it, despite her arousal, then she obviously doesn’t want me to touch her. If she parts them, like the Gates of Eden…. oh ho! Myra’s heart leapt as he caressed her. She willingly yielded to him; the invitation could not be more obvious. Yes, she inwardly begged, touch me… His fingertips brushed the outer lips of her vulva. She moaned. He repeatedly applied gentle pressure to her mound with three fingers; she sighed and her breathing became heavier. She felt an invading finger penetrate her. She groaned with pleasure and, not for the first time that day, opened her legs wider. Skilful digits found her clitoris, and they twirled and pushed and stroked to great effect. Myra surrendered. She knew she did not have to hold back any more. “Good girl,” said a hoarse whisper, “that’s it, give in. Let yourself go. Two fingers slid easily up her vagina, she was certainly well lubricated and he plunged them in an out, slowly at first, and then faster and faster. Whimpers became moans, and moans became onerous groans, and then the groans became cries of sheer, inhibited, joyful abandon. She pushed her bottom up and surrendered completely and utterly to him. She climaxed, and what an orgasm it was! Myra threw her head back, finally giving in to that beautiful primal urge.
Panting and breathless, she grew limp in his lap. Mr. Tennant gave her a few moments to compose herself. “Right miss, you’d better get up now.” Dazed and blissfully vacant, she staggered to her feet. Mr Tennant followed suit and was suddenly conscious of an uncomfortable damp patch on his thighs. “You little minx!” He laughed. Myra blushed to the roots of her hair. “Sorry, Sir.” “No, Myra, that’s good! Do you know how many women go through their entire lives not experiencing an orgasm?” Myra suddenly became very shy and couldn’t look him in the eye. Mr. Tennant’s voice hardened slightly once again, but his eyes were smiling. “Well girl, I asked you a question!” The girl was shook from her trance and gasped. “Er…actually Sir, yes. I am aware; you see it in the problem pages of tabloid rags all the time…” She paused, and then asked: “What was that cream you were using?”
Slightly caught off-guard by the question, he physically took half a step backwards. “Oh, that?” He waved his hand dismissively, “that was pure aloe vera; absolutely brilliant for skin irritations, stretch marks...and soothing hot bottoms!” He suddenly changed the subject. “What’s your next lesson, Myra?” Her heart, head and shoulders sank. “P.E. Sir…” Mr. Tennant momentarily melted. He was half considering writing her a note to excuse her from the next lesson; understandable, in the light of the ordeal that she had endured, but in all farness, it was his compassion that resulted in her receiving such a harsh punishment in the first place. He could not make the same mistake again; he did not want to risk Myra crossing swords with Mr Birch a second time. The House Master composed himself and despite his internal agony, hardened his expression. “Well, young lady, I hope you’re not expecting me to excuse you from Phys. Ed. I cannot afford to risk you going off the rails again. Mr. Birch did have a point: give a student, even one as exemplary as you an inch, and they will take a mile.” Seeing her crestfallen face made his heart ache. Feeling a lump in his throat, he swallowed.
“I wouldn’t expect you to, Sir,” she said sadly. “I understand…” Such a good girl, he thought. “But keep the witch hazel and the aloe vera. Be sure to treat your backside two to three times a day.” Myra smiled. “It would be a treat for my backside not to worry about it getting smacked for once, Sir!” Mr Tennant inwardly laughed, but kept his stern façade. “Don’t push your luck, young lady.” Myra lowered her eyes. “Yes Sir. Sorry, Sir.” The House Master cleared his throat. “Quite. Now go to my private bathroom and clean yourself up. You better hurry up, you don’t want to be late for your next lesson, do you?” Myra nodded, retrieved her knickers and scuttled off to Mr. Tennant’s private en-suite bathroom. High-ranking staff all had their own loo and sink adjacent to their office. It was one of the many perks of teaching at Saint Claire’s. Perhaps unsurprisingly, there was never a shortage of applicants. Most were semi-retired ex-teachers who spanked and caned errant students the first time around, before CP was originally outlawed. The last General Election saw the Conservatives winning by a landslide and one of their key manifesto pledges was to distance themselves from Europe and enforce discipline in schools. They introduced a controversial pilot scheme; failing inner city schools would be granted what was called “Academy Status”, and these particular institutions were to be given licence to use CP. The liberal press had a field day: “Tory Sadists Bring Back The Cane,” screamed The Mirror. The Guardian also expressed their reservations, albeit in a more measured tone: “Conservatives to Reintroduce Corporal Punishment in “Caning Academies” – Human Rights Activists Express Dismay” Other periodicals were positively celebratory: “Spanks For The Memory! – Dave “The Cane” Cameron Brings Back Discipline In Our Schools” sang The Sun. The Daily Mail had an equally triumphant air: “Teachers To Be Given Rights To Chastise Pupils” the headline ran, with the by-line reading: “Corporal Punishment to be Allowed in ‘Caning Academies.’ The furious debate surrounding CP was never going to die down, and Myra and Mr. Tennant were both stranded in this sea of madness. She had, by now, finished her ablutions and had picked up her bag.
“Bye, Sir.” She said, as he was browsing the many applications for the post of Junior Latin Master that were now strewn across his desk. (The Tories were keen on reintroducing traditional subjects too, as well as competitive sports and proper grammar.) Mr. Tennant looked up. “Goodbye Miss Longford, and do try to keep out of trouble, eh?” Myra grinned. “I’ll try, Sir,” and with that, she exited the room.
Cherry x
Now Myra and Mr Tennant were alone. He immediately helped her up. “Myra? Myra? Are you all right?” A tinge of panic coloured his voice. Myra groaned and opened her eyes. Looping his arm through hers, he escorted her to the large brown leather armchair that sat in the corner of the room. Adjacent to it, was a coffee table, complete with a china teapot, matching milk jug and sugar bowl. Mr Tennant loved his home comforts, and the biscuit tin was never far away. “Can you sit down?” he asked her. “I’ll try, Sir,” she said, meekly. The simple act of bending at the waist in order to sit was a Herculean task; it felt as if her skin had shrunk and every step was agony. “Oww-ww! Ahh!” she wailed, accompanied by a fresh torrent of tears. “Ok, ok, just bend over the arm of the chair, then. You should be well practiced in that by now!” He laughed nervously, trying to make light of a very bad situation. “Sir??” Myra squeaked. Surely she was not going to be punished again! “Don’t worry. Trust me.” She obeyed. The arm of the chair was soft, and bending over like this was certainly more comfortable than sitting down. If he was not going to spank her, then what was he going to do?
She heard the sound of a zip being undone and bottles clanking. Mr Tennant was busy rummaging in a battered old-fashioned brown leather Doctor’s bag. She was now conditioned not to turn around, so she obediently faced forward, inwardly panicking. Mr. Birch did not try too hard to conceal his obvious arousal; what the hell was Mr. Tennant going to do to her? He emerged triumphant, holding aloft a brown bottle of liquid and what looked like a tin of ointment.
“Found it!” he said. “Found what, Sir?” Myra asked, perplexed and nervous. “Witch hazel. The best for cleaning wounds.” “Wounds?!” Myra’s voice shot up an octave, her dazed drowsiness evaporating in an instant. “Mr Birch caned you so hard, he made you bleed.” Mr Tennant said simply. He placed the items on the coffee table and retrieved the implement that had made a complete mess of her bottom, not five minutes ago. “See?” he illustrated, so matter-of-factly; “the shaft has the distinctive blood spatter pattern of an over-zealous caning. But don’t worry, I’ll fix you up.”
Myra’s head whirled. Why was Mr Tennant being so mind-bogglingly flippant? The truth was the House Master was equally bewildered; he was also in shock as he struggled to comprehend what had just happened. When he had to think on his feet like this, he had a tendency to babble. He returned to the coffee table and picked up the brown bottle of witch hazel and he already had in his hand and a square of sterile gauze. “I know I really should send you to the nurse’s office,” he said, half apologetically, “but she will only have pharmaceutical creams. They’re nowhere near as effective as the old herbal ways. This will also bring out the bruising, and you will heal quicker.”
Myra relaxed. She felt so safe with this slightly eccentric teacher. He was different to the others. He was more…human. Candid moments were possible with him; he would never interpret casual conversation as insolence. “When I fell and grazed my knee at primary school,” began Myra, “the secretary used to put witch hazel on it.” She smiled at the memory. “We all loved being taken to the secretary to have some ‘magic cream’ put on our wounds. I used to love the attention. She would scold us if we whinged, though!”
Mr. Tennant smiled. He really was quite fond of this girl; he admired her spirit and her tenacity and she was usually such a perfect student. When his illusions were cruelly shattered, it totally enraged him. He felt responsible for ruining her by his liberal stance. When he had caned her, he never meant to be so harsh. Guilt started to gnaw at his guts.
“Well, I’m asking you to be brave right now,” he replied. “As this will sting.” He dabbed away at her injuries, the bruising, the soreness, and the cuts. Myra gritted her teeth and winced, hissing with the pain. She tried her level best not to complain. “Good girl,” he soothed, “I know this hurts.” “It’s ok Sir,” replied Myra, “just do what you need to do.” He continued to tend to her injuries. Myra felt her spark and her spirit return. She vowed that she would never cross Mr Tennant again, and that Mr Birch would pay for what he had done. She knew the House Master was on her side. Yes, thought Myra, justice will be done. Let’s see how you like it when I (metaphorically) whip your arse!
“Right, madam,” began Mr. Tennant, as he safely disposed of the bloodstained gauze. “Up you get.” He helped her up. Myra’s complaints were only whimpers now. He led her to the front of the armchair, sat down and with a skilful tug of the wrist, sent her tumbling across his lap! Myra started to panic and pant. “Shhh, my dear. There’s nothing to worry about. Being across my knee is the best way to access that bottom of yours, and I haven’t finished treating it yet!” He reached for the screw pot of cream that he had also retrieved earlier. He scooped out a generous measure with his middle and forefinger and slathered the cold ointment all over her scalding vermilion cheeks. Myra gasped, and then sighed. His touch was of a velveteen tenderness that made her shiver with delight. She tried to conceal her increasing excitement and Mr Tennant smiled inwardly as her hips lifted and plunged in his lap. He knew, of course that he was turning her on, but he pretended not to notice, instead choosing to focus on stroking and anointing her shuddering summits and shapely thighs. He was not even primarily concerned with his own gratification; he wanted this pleasure, this pure bliss, to be the one thing that she remembered the most from this whole sorry affair. He did not want her to be mentally scarred by Mr Birch’s brutality.
A wicked thought came to him, and he smiled like a lizard. He started to apply the soothing balm to her inner thighs. Lets see if she parts her legs, he thought. If she clamps them together like her life depends on it, despite her arousal, then she obviously doesn’t want me to touch her. If she parts them, like the Gates of Eden…. oh ho! Myra’s heart leapt as he caressed her. She willingly yielded to him; the invitation could not be more obvious. Yes, she inwardly begged, touch me… His fingertips brushed the outer lips of her vulva. She moaned. He repeatedly applied gentle pressure to her mound with three fingers; she sighed and her breathing became heavier. She felt an invading finger penetrate her. She groaned with pleasure and, not for the first time that day, opened her legs wider. Skilful digits found her clitoris, and they twirled and pushed and stroked to great effect. Myra surrendered. She knew she did not have to hold back any more. “Good girl,” said a hoarse whisper, “that’s it, give in. Let yourself go. Two fingers slid easily up her vagina, she was certainly well lubricated and he plunged them in an out, slowly at first, and then faster and faster. Whimpers became moans, and moans became onerous groans, and then the groans became cries of sheer, inhibited, joyful abandon. She pushed her bottom up and surrendered completely and utterly to him. She climaxed, and what an orgasm it was! Myra threw her head back, finally giving in to that beautiful primal urge.
Panting and breathless, she grew limp in his lap. Mr. Tennant gave her a few moments to compose herself. “Right miss, you’d better get up now.” Dazed and blissfully vacant, she staggered to her feet. Mr Tennant followed suit and was suddenly conscious of an uncomfortable damp patch on his thighs. “You little minx!” He laughed. Myra blushed to the roots of her hair. “Sorry, Sir.” “No, Myra, that’s good! Do you know how many women go through their entire lives not experiencing an orgasm?” Myra suddenly became very shy and couldn’t look him in the eye. Mr. Tennant’s voice hardened slightly once again, but his eyes were smiling. “Well girl, I asked you a question!” The girl was shook from her trance and gasped. “Er…actually Sir, yes. I am aware; you see it in the problem pages of tabloid rags all the time…” She paused, and then asked: “What was that cream you were using?”
Slightly caught off-guard by the question, he physically took half a step backwards. “Oh, that?” He waved his hand dismissively, “that was pure aloe vera; absolutely brilliant for skin irritations, stretch marks...and soothing hot bottoms!” He suddenly changed the subject. “What’s your next lesson, Myra?” Her heart, head and shoulders sank. “P.E. Sir…” Mr. Tennant momentarily melted. He was half considering writing her a note to excuse her from the next lesson; understandable, in the light of the ordeal that she had endured, but in all farness, it was his compassion that resulted in her receiving such a harsh punishment in the first place. He could not make the same mistake again; he did not want to risk Myra crossing swords with Mr Birch a second time. The House Master composed himself and despite his internal agony, hardened his expression. “Well, young lady, I hope you’re not expecting me to excuse you from Phys. Ed. I cannot afford to risk you going off the rails again. Mr. Birch did have a point: give a student, even one as exemplary as you an inch, and they will take a mile.” Seeing her crestfallen face made his heart ache. Feeling a lump in his throat, he swallowed.
“I wouldn’t expect you to, Sir,” she said sadly. “I understand…” Such a good girl, he thought. “But keep the witch hazel and the aloe vera. Be sure to treat your backside two to three times a day.” Myra smiled. “It would be a treat for my backside not to worry about it getting smacked for once, Sir!” Mr Tennant inwardly laughed, but kept his stern façade. “Don’t push your luck, young lady.” Myra lowered her eyes. “Yes Sir. Sorry, Sir.” The House Master cleared his throat. “Quite. Now go to my private bathroom and clean yourself up. You better hurry up, you don’t want to be late for your next lesson, do you?” Myra nodded, retrieved her knickers and scuttled off to Mr. Tennant’s private en-suite bathroom. High-ranking staff all had their own loo and sink adjacent to their office. It was one of the many perks of teaching at Saint Claire’s. Perhaps unsurprisingly, there was never a shortage of applicants. Most were semi-retired ex-teachers who spanked and caned errant students the first time around, before CP was originally outlawed. The last General Election saw the Conservatives winning by a landslide and one of their key manifesto pledges was to distance themselves from Europe and enforce discipline in schools. They introduced a controversial pilot scheme; failing inner city schools would be granted what was called “Academy Status”, and these particular institutions were to be given licence to use CP. The liberal press had a field day: “Tory Sadists Bring Back The Cane,” screamed The Mirror. The Guardian also expressed their reservations, albeit in a more measured tone: “Conservatives to Reintroduce Corporal Punishment in “Caning Academies” – Human Rights Activists Express Dismay” Other periodicals were positively celebratory: “Spanks For The Memory! – Dave “The Cane” Cameron Brings Back Discipline In Our Schools” sang The Sun. The Daily Mail had an equally triumphant air: “Teachers To Be Given Rights To Chastise Pupils” the headline ran, with the by-line reading: “Corporal Punishment to be Allowed in ‘Caning Academies.’ The furious debate surrounding CP was never going to die down, and Myra and Mr. Tennant were both stranded in this sea of madness. She had, by now, finished her ablutions and had picked up her bag.
“Bye, Sir.” She said, as he was browsing the many applications for the post of Junior Latin Master that were now strewn across his desk. (The Tories were keen on reintroducing traditional subjects too, as well as competitive sports and proper grammar.) Mr. Tennant looked up. “Goodbye Miss Longford, and do try to keep out of trouble, eh?” Myra grinned. “I’ll try, Sir,” and with that, she exited the room.